


Crossing the Pond

by Lady_Saddlebred



Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me [29]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 02:09:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8352163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Saddlebred/pseuds/Lady_Saddlebred
Summary: There's goin' to be a weddin' in County Antrim





	

**Author's Note:**

> St. James Catholic Church in Ballymena, County Antrim, and Father Michael (“Mick”) Kildare, as well as Quinn’s family and friends, are entirely products of the author’s imagination, and are in no way intended to reflect on any actual person or place.

Title: Crossing the Pond

Authors: Lady_Saddlebred (cdelapin@yahoo.com)

Archive: Yes, please

Category: Qui/Obi, Alternate Reality, Romance, Humor, Angst

Rating: NC-17

 

Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me (archived)

 

DISCLAIMER: George Lucas owned everything, until he sold it to Disney. We own nothing, just building castles in the sand.

 

Special thanks to Katbear and Merry Amelie and Helen, mes betas par excellence! Any mistakes are mine.

 

SUMMARY: There’s goin’ to be a weddin’ in County Antrim…

 

Previous fics in series: all on AO3 website:  
Early Admission  
Lessons They Never Taught Me in School  
Lessons That Were Never on the Syllabus  
That Which Does Not Go to School  
Rainy Day Recess   
Of Popcorn and Pine Trees  
Fit to Print  
Daffodils  
Spring Cotillion  
Is That a Lightsaber I See Before Me?  
A Pen for Your Thoughts  
When I Was Your Age  
Partners  
A Family Affair  
Best Laid Plans  
An Apple for Teacher  
What’s for Supper?  
Quinn’s Special Day  
Pacifier  
Snow Angels  
One Man’s Junk  
May I Have This Dance?  
Four Green Fields  
Too Darned Hot  
Pomp and Circumstances  
Summertime Blues  
Blow the Man Down  
Post-Graduate Studies

 

NOTE: St. James Catholic Church in Ballymena, County Antrim, and Father Michael (“Mick”) Kildare, as well as Quinn’s family and friends, are entirely products of the author’s imagination, and are in no way intended to reflect on any actual person or place. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Mrs. Seán Pádraig Gearalt O’Sullivan  
requests the honour of your presence  
at the uniting of her daughter  
Máire Catraoine Siobhan  
and  
Mr. Peadar Cillian Somhairle Jameson  
in the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony  
Saturday, the twentieth day of August  
Two thousand and sixteen  
half after ten o'clock in the morning  
St James Catholic Church  
Ballymena  
County Antrim

 

Ben read the engraved invitation through, then read it again. “Maire? I thought her name was Molly.”

 

Quinn nodded. “It is. ‘Molly’ is an Irish derivative of ‘Mary’ or ‘Margaret.’ And it’s pronounced ‘MAW-ra.’ In English, she’d be Mary Catherine Shevaun Sullivan.”

 

“Can’t I just call her Molly?” Ben asked plaintively.

 

Quinn chuckled. “Everyone does.”

 

“And,” Ben consulted the invitation again, “Pee… Paa…”

 

“‘PADTH-ur’,” Quinn corrected patiently. “Think ‘Peter.’ Peter Killian Samuel. And Jameson, like the whiskey.”

 

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what’s *your* Irish name?”

 

Quinn smiled. “A total tongue-twister, for those not accustomed to speaking the Gaeilge. It’s ‘Cuinn Seosamh.’ And yours would be ‘Beircheart Liam.’”

 

Ben made a valiant effort, but quickly gave up. “I’ll never keep it all straight. They’re going to think I’m a total wuss.” He looked up hopefully. “Is it too late to back out and stay home? After all, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now at work, and-”

 

“Because of a few names? Be serious, Ben. Trust me, it won’t be a problem.” Quinn kissed the top of his head. “You’ll be fine.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

The shrill ringing roused Quinn from a deep sleep, and he groped for the phone. “… Hullo…?” he mumbled.

 

“Uncail Cuinn?” came a bright female voice in his ear. “Be that you?”

 

Quinn scrubbed at his eyes with his free hand. “Aye, ’tis,” he replied, automatically mirroring the diction. “Who be on that end?”

 

“Ye silly bugger! Isn’t it yer very own Molly?” The line rang with happy laughter. “Never be tellin’ me I woke ye up! The day be half gone, ye great slugabed!”

 

“Where *ye* are, maybe,” Quinn retorted. “Isn’t it damn near the middle of the night where I am, ye minx? What’d ye mean by waking up an auld man thataway? Who’s gone and died?”

 

“No one yet, unless ye’re aboot to tell me ye’re not comin’ to me weddin’! Say that, and willna I just be gettin’ a contract out on ye before the day’s over?” Molly retorted. 

 

“Bollocks. Canna hae that now, can we?” Quinn said, chuckling helplessly. “Of course I’ll be there, ye silly wiggle. Dinna I already promise yer Gran? Canna let me best lass tie the knot with some bloody great toff without givin’ him a good grillin’ first.”

 

“Dinna I need to be hearin’ it from yer own lips?” Molly responded. “And ye’re walking me down the aisle, yeah?”

 

“If ye swear to behave yerself and nae be givin’ yer puir groom the backside of yer wicked tongue the minute he puts a ring on yer finger, I’ll consider it.”

 

“Done.” 

 

“And done,” Quinn affirmed. “I’m spittin’ in me hand as we speak.”

 

“And ye’ll not be comin’ alone…” she continued, in a conspiratorial whisper.

 

Quinn hesitated, then took the plunge. “Aye, lass, that be the plan.” He held his breath, waiting for a reaction.

 

Molly’s tone abruptly modulated. “I’m so happy fer ye, Uncail. I canna wait to meet him.”

 

Quinn’s heart melted. He’d always been a soft touch for his sisters’ children, but Molly was his favorite. He’d handed her his heart the first time she’d been placed in his arms, then only a few hours old. “Thank ye, sweetheart. That means a lot to me,” he said, trying to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat.

 

“Now,” Molly went on briskly, “I told Gran I’d pick youse up at the airport in Dublin, so I can get first crack at him. I’m claimin’ bride’s rights, so dinna be tryin’ to get out of it now!” 

 

Quinn chuckled. What a wee vixen she was. Young Jameson would have his hands full. Quinn only hoped he knew how lucky he was. “I wouldna dare go agin the wishes of the bride,” he assured her solemnly. “It’d be worth more than me life, to be sure.”

 

By this time, Ben was awake and blinking owlishly at the phone. Quinn placed a hand over the receiver. “It’s Molly, me niece, callin’ from Ballymena.”

 

“The one that’s getting married in two weeks?” Ben whispered, eyes wide. 

 

Quinn nodded. “Hang on, lass,” he said into the phone, then handed it to Ben. “Say hello, there’s a good lad.”

 

Ben warily took the receiver, looking as if he’d rather be handling a live rattlesnake. “Um, hello?”

 

“Is it yerself, then?” came the happy lilting voice on the other end. 

 

“Uh, yes, it is,” stammered Ben. “Is this Molly?” 

 

“It is,” Molly affirmed, “and it’s glad I am to be makin’ your acquaintance, sir. Is me uncle lookin’ after ye right good and proper?” There was a contagious giggle on the other end, and Ben found himself grinning in response. 

 

“He’s doing just fine, thanks. My best wishes on your upcoming nuptials,” Ben said politely.

 

“Oh, thank ye, Ben. We’re all lookin’ forward to seeing youse. Hae ye been to our fair island before?”

 

“No, I haven’t. But your uncle tells me that it’s really beautiful.”

 

“Oh, aye, it is. And won’t ye be seein’ it for yerself soon enough? Be sure to make Uncle show ye around. But dinna ye dare be missin’ me weddin’, or I’ll be sendin’ the Gardai out to haul youse down the aisle in irons!” 

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Ben answered obediently. “I’m going to give you back to your uncle now, all right?” He handed the phone to Quinn and headed for the bathroom.

 

Quinn waited a moment, then spoke quietly into the receiver. “Well, lass, now ye’ve made his acquaintance. Satisfied?”

 

“Fer now,” Molly answered. “Oh, he sounds ever so lovely, Uncail. And dinna Gran say he’s devilish handsome? A redhead, like me, and green eyes, to boot? Ye’ve excellent taste, to be sure.”

 

“Yer Gran be correct, lass,” Quinn affirmed. “Though, thanks be to God, he’s got a wee bit less of a temper than ye. So, how’s yer mum holding up, with all the wedding fuss and feathers?”

 

“Isna she lovin’ every minute of it? She’s nae had this much fun in years. It’s goin’ to be a brilliant party.”

 

“I’m sure it will,” her uncle agreed. “We’ll be seeing ye soon. Love to your mum and the rest of the clan.”

 

“Love to ye, too, Uncail. Canna wait to meet yer Ben in person. Cheers!” She rang off.

 

Ben came out of the bathroom just as Quinn hung up the phone. “She sounds great,” he commented, sitting on the edge of the bed.

 

“Aye, she is,” Quinn agreed. “Gwen’s oldest, and the light of her grandmother’s heart. I only hope that bugger Jameson appreciates what he’s gettin’.”

 

“I have a feeling Uncle Quinn will make sure of that,” Ben teased.

 

Quinn nodded. “Along with everyone else, no doubt.” He leaned forward, and Ben met him halfway for a kiss. “Thank ye for speakin’ with her, love. She was thrilled.”

 

“She made me promise to get you to the church on time,” Ben joked. “Hope somebody gives me a map, or a GPS link.”

 

“Ye’ll not be needin’ it,” Quinn assured him. “Ballymena’s Catholic sector’s nae that big. And Mick’ll likely be sendin’ out a search party if we’re not there at least an hour early.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben looked eagerly out the window as the Aer Lingus jet began its early morning descent into Dublin International Airport. He’d tried to follow Quinn’s example and sleep through the overnight flight, but was too keyed up to do more than doze. Instead, he’d made use of the plane’s complimentary WiFi for some last-minute online research. Quinn had promised to take him sightseeing, and Ben was trying to prioritize his list of must-see’s. Though the entire island was smaller than the state of Indiana, Quinn had humorously cautioned him that aerial maps could be “a wee bit deceiving.” 

 

The six counties of Northern Ireland, including County Antrim, where Quinn had been “bread-and-buttered,” as the saying went, were part of the United Kingdom. The remaining twenty-four counties to the south and west made up the independent Republic of Ireland. The Republic’s currency, like the rest of the European Union, was the euro, but the North still used the English pound sterling. English and Gaeilge (Irish Gaelic) were the official languages of both countries, albeit with a wide variety of regional dialects, and both retained the English custom of driving on the “wrong” side of the road. When Ben had asked for advice on driving, Quinn had winked and suggested prayer.

 

He was admittedly a bit uneasy about the legendary political unrest, particularly around Belfast, less than an hour southeast of Ballymena. The centuries-old antipathies, he knew, stemmed from both religious and geopolitical differences. Quinn solemnly agreed that while “The Troubles” were more or less a thing of the past since the 1998 Good Friday peace treaty, some local inherent resentments remained. The majority of Ballymena’s population was Protestant. Best not to ask too many questions in public.

 

Quinn’s English-born mother had been raised in the Church of England, but converted to Catholicism about the time Quinn was born. Quinn had seemed pleased Molly was marrying a Catholic, though he himself was largely non-practicing. Ben hoped Quinn’s family wouldn’t make an issue of his own non-Catholic status. Then again, which was worse – that he wasn’t Catholic, or that he wasn’t female? Shit, two strikes against him and they hadn’t even met him yet! 

 

It was barely dawn when they landed. Ben had already set his watch five hours ahead, but his body tiredly insisted it was only a little after midnight. Sleepy-eyed, he followed Quinn through the spacious airport to collect their luggage. The Customs official stamped Ben’s passport and wished him a pleasant holiday. Quinn, still a citizen of Northern Ireland after more than 25 years living in the States, was smilingly welcomed home. 

 

Exiting the escalator on the ground floor, they both turned at the sound of a high-pitched female cry. “Uncail! *Uncail Cuinn*!”

 

A tall, lithe redhead in jeans and a t-shirt was running toward them, waving excitedly. Quinn barely dropped his suitcase in time before she flung herself into his arms, hugging him fiercely. They were both laughing and chattering in Irish, and Ben couldn’t understand a word. 

 

Quinn twirled her around, then turned to Ben. “Ben, this be Molly O’Sullivan, me sister’s eldest, and the one whose wedding hae brought us here. Molly, lass, be sayin’ hello to Mr. Ben Kensington.” 

 

Molly gripped Ben’s hand in a firm handshake. “’Tis happy I am to be meetin’ ye at last,” she said, with a bright smile. “Oh, isna he a right winnin’ lad, Uncail? Ye’d best be keepin’ a tight hold on him, or willna all the lasses be tryin’ to steal him away?”

 

“Get on with ye,” Quinn retorted, with a grin. “I’m nae worried about it, and ye’ll be too busy changin’ your name to meddle. Mind yer manners now; ye’re nae yet too big to be turned over me knee for a good paddlin’. And why in the name of St. Bridget be ye after marryin’ a total stranger? Here ye’ve gone and promised him yer hand afore I’ve even met him!” He shook his head. “Shameful it is, and no mistake.”

 

She laughed and kissed his cheek. “The ceremony’s nae until Saturday, Uncail, so ye’ve plenty of time to be talkin’ me out of it, if ye care to try. But, really, here all this time I thought ye were just waitin’ fer me to grow up, and then I hear from Gran that ye’ve gone and hitched yerself to this bonny lad instead. What’s a puir lass to do?” Her green eyes twinkled at Ben, who couldn’t help but smile back. Peter Jameson was a lucky man.

 

Quinn sighed. “Well, since ye be puttin’ it that way…” 

 

Molly looped her arms through both men’s and pulled them toward the door. “Now, dinna I tell Gran I’d be bringin’ youse straight home, so we’d best be gettin’ on the road. C’mon!” 

 

Ben decided the trip was off to a good start.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The two-and-a-half-hour drive north was full of exotic scenery, and Ben was hard-pressed to know where to look first. Quinn had offered him the front seat, but he’d elected to sit in back. Even in first class, Quinn’s bad knee had been cramped for more than seven hours, and he’d surely appreciate the extra leg room. It also freed Ben up to be able to look out either side of the car at will.

 

Molly and Quinn chatted about family and the wedding. Ben listened and tried to remember which relative was which. In deference to him, they spoke primarily in English, but there were occasional lapses – intentional or otherwise – into the Irish. Probably about me, he thought, with a rueful smile. He surreptitiously pulled out his smartphone and checked his notes, wanting to make a good first impression. 

 

Molly was the firstborn child of Quinn’s sister, Gwen, the older of his two younger siblings. Molly’s father, Sean, had drowned in a fishing accident several years earlier, and Gwen had not remarried. Molly had two brothers, Aiden and Colm, and two sisters, Helen and Kathleen. 

 

Quinn’s younger sister, Reina, was married to Cathal O’Brien. They had three sons, Jamie, Eamonn and Donal, and one daughter, Bridget. Gwen and Reina ran a bed-and-breakfast in Ballymena, not far from the Donovan family home. Cathal owned a small chartered fishing business, and was a member of the all-volunteer Irish Coast Guard search-and-rescue team in County Antrim.

 

Quinn and Molly pointed out various sites of interest as they rode along, and Ben openly gaped at the rugged beauty of the landscape. Everywhere he looked were free-standing rock walls, seemingly held together by nothing more than gravity. From the air, it had looked like a massive patchwork quilt, or maybe the Jolly Green Giant’s chess board. Quinn had explained that the walls were property lines, many of which had stood undisturbed for hundreds of years. Ben could believe it.

 

Hedgerows lined the narrow roads, and dark green bushes dotted with vivid yellow blooms fanned out as far as the eye could see. “Gorse,” Quinn told him, a protected species in Ireland, but considered nothing more than a bothersome weed in Australia, where it had originated. Molly chimed in that she’d wanted to incorporate it into her color scheme for the wedding, but had been overruled by the other females in the family.

 

Ben was fascinated, too, by the dual-language listings on virtually every signpost, building, etc. Generally, the English was on top, but not always. A few of the Irish names were quasi-recognizable from their English equivalents. Others were more exotic, and the pronunciations often entirely different. Quinn had told him there were still pocket communities along the western coast known as the Gaeltacht, where only Irish was spoken, by choice. However, most natives spoke fluent English (and frequently several other languages as well) and were remarkably tolerant of Yank tourists. Molly added that, following the “Celtic Tiger” industry explosion of the previous couple of decades, Ben shouldn’t be surprised to find men and women of multiple nationalities and races living and working in both countries.

 

“How far is your home from the Giant’s Causeway?” Ben asked. He was looking forward to seeing the famous natural wonder on the County Antrim coastline.

 

“About an hour north,” Quinn replied. “On a clear day, you can see Scotland on the horizon. It was the Normans’ first sighting of Ireland from there that made them come pay a visit. Once here, they took one look and decided to stay.”

 

“And be sure to tell him the legend of Fionn mac Cumhaill, Uncail,” Molly reminded him. “Sure, and ’tis a wondrous tale.”

 

“Silly wiggle,” Quinn said reprovingly. “Ben’s a proper educated lad; he probably knows more about Finn MacCool than ye do.” He grinned over his shoulder at Ben, who hastily palmed his smartphone. A downward glance and a wink told him he hadn’t been quite fast enough, but wouldn’t be outed for it.

 

“Well, seein’ as ye be of such a *scientific* turn of mind, Uncail, I’d expect ye to be givin’ him naught but the geological basis for it,” Molly said dryly. “Dinna let him be sellin’ ye short, Ben. Nearly every rock and pond has a story behind it, and all of them lovely in the tellin’.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Molly,” Ben promised, and was rewarded with a sunny smile in the rear-view mirror.

 

~*~*~*~

 

By the time they reached the Donovan family home, the sun was up and shining brightly. There’d been a couple of passing showers along the way, and Ben had been as excited as a child to see a rainbow over one of the fields. Molly assured him it was the Good Lord’s way of welcoming him to Erin. Quinn cynically reminded her that it rained frequently due to the temperate climate, and rainbows were nothing unusual. She agreed, but really, wasn’t that just proving her point? Ireland was The Land of One Hundred Thousand Welcomes, after all, and weren’t the angels just playing their part? 

 

There were a couple of older-model SUV’s in the semi-circular gravel driveway when they pulled in. The three-story rectangular home was built of pale yellow concrete, reminding Ben of French Vanilla ice cream. Most of the houses they’d passed were similarly constructed, in varying shades of white, blue, pink, green or lavender. The house gleamed in the morning sunlight, as if it had just been freshly painted or power-washed, and the lawn and driveway were immaculate. Ben assumed the matching smaller building behind the house was a detached garage. In a shaded corner of the front yard was a tiny wooden house atop a sawed-off tree trunk. Quinn matter-of-factly explained that this was for the family leprechauns, and woe to any foolish enough to disturb them. The small plate at the door, Molly added, was for the nightly offering of bread and milk, to ensure their ongoing protection against evil. Ben somehow suspected something other than sprites was enjoying a regular bedtime snack at their expense. 

 

“C’mon, then,” Molly urged the two men as they climbed out of the car. “Isna the clan assemblin’ in yer honor, and hadna we better nae be keepin’ ’em waitin’!” 

 

Quinn touched Ben’s shoulder. “Ready?” he said softly.

 

Ben grinned up at him. “I was born ready,” he joked.

 

The front door opened and Genevieve Quinntrell Donovan held out her arms. “Here you are, at last!” she cried, as Quinn took the steps two at a time to embrace his mother. “Oh, darling, it’s so good to see you! And Ben, welcome to Ballymena,” she added, with a smile that warmed Ben’s soul. “Come in, and we’ll get you on the outside of some food straightaway. You must be starving after that long flight and the drive up from Dublin.” She turned toward the interior. “Gwen, Reina, put the kettle on. Your brother’s home!”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn’s heart was full as he gazed around the room at his family. His sisters had greeted him with happy cries, then dragged both men into the big kitchen at the rear of the house. Mugs of strong black tea were followed by bowls of porridge with heavy cream and sliced fruit. Ben was looking more than a little dazed: between the jet lag, the two-plus-hour drive from the airport, and now being thrust into the bosom of Quinn’s boisterous clan, it was a lot to take in. Catching his eye across the table, Quinn mouthed, “Love you.” Ben nodded weakly, and Quinn gestured to him to dig in. Food was a staple of Irish hospitality. Everything else would wait.

 

The cereal was followed by the traditional “Full Irish Breakfast”: eggs, sausage links, thick slabs of bacon, grilled tomatoes, buttered toast with home-made raspberry jam, and the inevitable black and white puddings. Quinn watched, amused, as Ben poked the small biscuit-like objects with his fork, then gamely cut a piece of each and brought them to his mouth. Both of Quinn’s sisters were excellent cooks, but Irish fare could be a bit of an acquired taste. From the look on Ben’s face, the puddings were not the high point of the meal. Quinn could relate: black pudding always reminded him of asphalt, the white of congealed wallpaper paste.

 

Jenny, Gwen and Reina drew up chairs and dotingly watched the men eat. Molly had disappeared, and Quinn was pretty sure she was out rounding up the troops. He hoped for a wee bit of time to allow Ben to settle in before he had to deal with the Donovans in full cry. 

 

It was his own fault: he didn’t “cross the pond” nearly as often as his mother wished, and now he’d returned with a controversial new love. His mother had broken the news after her visit to the States in March, and Molly had called from Ballymena to get the inside scoop. He mentally crossed himself and sent up a silent prayer that the rest of the family would be as receptive. If not, he’d spirit Ben off to a hotel and they’d remain out of sight until the wedding, make a token appearance and leave again. He’d not force his lad to stay anywhere he wasn’t welcome.

 

Once they’d eaten and drunk their fill, everyone moved to a large glass-ceilinged atrium on the side of the house. The younger children were in school, but would be back in the evening for a big family dinner. Reina’s husband, Cathal, was out on his fishing boat, and would join them later. Quinn breathed a sigh of relief – at least Ben wouldn’t have to tackle all his kin in one sitting. 

 

Gwen and Reina peppered their brother with questions about his work, and why hadn’t he been home for so long? Quinn smiled at the familiar grilling, and met his mother’s eyes across the room. Some things never changed, they agreed silently. At least it gave Ben a chance to catch his breath. 

 

“Now, then, Mr. Benjamin Kensington,” Reina said, turning to him. “Tell us about yerself, there’s a good lad. Isna this great amadon the worst there is for sharin’ news? Dinna we hae to hear it from Mum that he was even *seein’* someone at all? We’re after wantin’ to be knowin’ ye better.” The tone was friendly, but Quinn suspected they’d been counting down the hours to his and Ben’s arrival.

 

Ben smiled, a bit uncertainly. “Well, Quinn and I used to work together at the Academy. I was the I.T.-” 

 

“The ‘*it*’?” Gwen interrupted, with a laugh. “What the devil is that?” 

 

“Quiet, ye looney,” Quinn reproved. “And maybe ye’ll learn something, for a change.”

 

“Would ye just listen to him now? Mr. High and Mighty Quinntrell Joseph Michael Donovan, Ph.D., with all his fine airs and graces. Tellin’ his own kin how to do things, and him not back in the country even a full day yet. God hae mercy on us all,” his sister teased. “I told ye, Mum, lettin’ him go off to Cambridge was a bad idea. He’s gone bloody Brit on us!” 

 

Quinn heaved a long-suffering sigh. “And *I* can see that some things havena changed around here, yeah? Ye’ve still got the same smart-alecky mouth ye were born with. No respect fer yer elders, no matter how well deserved.” He shook his head. “Disgraceful, it is, and no mistake.” He turned to their mother, who was struggling to keep from smiling. “Will we not be throwin’ ’em out with the trash straightaway?”

 

“Ah, put off yer grand ways, ye bloody toff; they’ll do ye no good here,” Reina scoffed. “We’re on to ye, and no mistake. Dinna we know where all the bodies be buried? There’ll be no secrets here!” She grinned at Ben, who looked unsure whether to laugh or run for cover. “C’mon, then, Ben, let’s hae it. Dinna mind us; we’re only itchin’ to be knowin’ every little thing there is about ye, that’s all.”

 

“Ye’re itchin’ for a switchin’,” growled Quinn, draping a protective arm along the back of the couch behind Ben’s shoulders. 

 

Ben took a deep breath. “Well, I used to work at the Academy,” he began. “That’s where Quinn and I met. But I left at the end of the school year, and now I work for First Call, an independent digital support company.” He paused, considering. “Let’s see, I’m thirty-three years old. My father owns a small construction company, and my mother’s a homemaker. I have an older brother, who’s married with one son. I’ve never been to Ireland, but I’m liking everything I’ve seen so far. It’s really beautiful, and… and I’m just happy to be here,” he finished breathlessly. 

 

Gwen beamed. “And arena we that pleased to hae ye here as well, sir? Yer man’s been on his own for too long. Ye’re more than welcome, and we hope ye’ll nae be a stranger.” Reina nodded, and Jenny’s eyes were suspiciously bright. Quinn was relieved; first hurdle met and overcome.

 

“Thanks,” Ben said softly, to the room at large. “That means a lot, to both of us.”

 

“Aye, it does,” Quinn affirmed, with a grateful look at each of his sisters. “So, how’s the B&B business? And will ye be havin’ a room for us while we’re here?”

 

“We thought you might like to stay at the cottage,” Jenny suggested. “You can take your meals here, but you’ll have a bit of privacy, away from all the wedding preparations. The house is no place for men right now, and the B&B is booked with wedding guests.”

 

Quinn nodded slowly. “Are ye sure, Mum? We can just get a hotel in town.”

 

“Whatever for, when the cottage is standing empty and waiting?” his mother answered. “It’s been cleaned and freshened, and the pantry’s full, if you want to do your own cooking. You don’t have to take it, of course, but it seemed the logical solution. And you can stay as long as you like.” 

 

The wistful tone spoke volumes to her son’s ears. He felt guilty at how long it had been since he’d made the trip back home, even though she’d never questioned his reasons for staying away. Well, he was here now. “Ben? Does that sound good to you?” he asked politely. He hadn’t meant to put him on the spot, but at the same time he wasn’t about to force him into an untenable situation.

 

Ben nodded. “I’m not hard to get along with,” he said lightly, and the women all laughed. “Where is this cottage?”

 

“You saw it when you came in,” Quinn explained. “Out back. It’s where Mum and Da lived after they were married, and where the three of us were bread-and-buttered.” At Ben’s confused look, Jenny stepped smoothly into the gap.

 

“Quinn’s father was the property manager for the couple who owned this place, and we lived in the cottage out back. They had no children of their own, and practically adopted these three, remember, Quinn?” He nodded. “When Joseph died, they asked me to stay on. A couple of years later, they both passed away as well, and the property was going to be sold for taxes. So, I bought it.” 

 

“Wow,” breathed Ben. “That’s amazing, Jenny. What a great story.”

 

“So, the cottage is vacant, and you’re more than welcome to use it. Quinn said you wanted to do some sightseeing, and you’ll probably prefer to stay away until the wedding, but I hope you’ll find time to spend here, too. We want to know you better.” 

 

Quinn smiled. His mother was impossible to resist.

 

~*~*~*~

Supper that night was a lively affair. Ben struggled to keep up with who was who, but no one seemed to mind if he occasionally got a name wrong. Without exception, they welcomed him to Ballymena, and thanked him for bringing their prodigal son home. The younger nieces and nephews were a bit shy, and Ben was pretty sure there’d be some bedtime whisperings about them that night.

After dinner, the family adjourned to the living room. Wide-eyed, Ben listened as Reina’s burly husband, Cathal, spoke of daring Coast Guard rescues on land and sea. He eagerly accepted an invitation to tour the local Coast Guard station, loudly echoed by the younger family members.

Once the hubbub died down a bit, Gwen cocked an eyebrow at Ben. “I hae to ask, be ye really that desperate?” she asked sympathetically. 

Ben glanced at Quinn, who just rolled his eyes and sipped his whiskey. “Desperate? I don’t think I-”

Gwen pursed her lips and shook her head. “A shame it is, and no mistake. A bonny lad like yerself, havin’ to settle for the likes of this great amadon.” She squealed as Quinn tickled her.

“Ye’re a wicked wench,” he growled. “Was there ever a worser sister, I’d like to know?” He turned to their mother. “I thought surely ye’d have taught them a wee bit of manners by now.” 

“She dinna have much luck with ye,” countered Reina, grinning from the safety of the other side of the room.

“Aie me,” Quinn mourned. “Ben, ’tis sorry I am to have burdened ye with these miserable excuses fer relations. Forgive me, love.”

Jenny sighed. “Do you feel as if you’ve been tossed headlong into an asylum, Ben? Best to let them get it out of their systems early, and perhaps they’ll behave themselves long enough for poor Molly and Pete to say ‘I do’ on Saturday.” 

“I’ll see if I can’t whip him into shape in time for the wedding, Jenny,” Ben answered, struggling to keep from laughing at their tomfoolery, which he suspected was largely for his benefit.

“Ah, did ye hear that, Gwen?” Reina hooted. “’Whip him inta shape,’ the lad says. Good on ye, Ben! I always did think a whippin’ would do him a world of good! Lord knows he had few enough of ’em growing up.”

“And ye’d know that how, *baby* sister?” Quinn countered. “I remember taking the flat of me hand to yer swaddled bottom a time or two, when Da wasn’t around to do it.” He grinned at Cathal. “Dinna I warn ye when ye married the wench that ye’d have to beat her regular to keep her in line?” 

“He tried,” Reina retorted. “But he learned straight off that I had the better right hook!” 

Jenny shook her head in mock despair. “Ben, their father and I did *try* to teach them all decent behavior, believe it or not. But better you and Pete find out now what you’re getting yourselves into, wanting to join this motley band of miscreants. You’re brave lads, the pair of you.”

Ben was secretly pleased to hear himself lumped in with Molly’s barrister fiancé, of whom Clan Donovan obviously approved. And the teasing was clearly given and returned with love. Quinn was laughing as he verbally jousted with his sisters, his brogue growing thicker by the minute. And Jenny, genteelly regal in her wing chair next to the fireplace, was plainly loving having all her children around her, if only for a short while. 

Reina sidled around the couch and loudly stage-whispered in Ben’s ear. “Ye come with Gwen and me, Ben, lad. We’ll ‘educate’ ye about all the stuff yer man probably dinna want ye knowin’.” Gwen nodded vigorously, then leapt up as Quinn reached for her again. 

“He really needs to be told,” she said, wagging a finger reprovingly at her brother from several feet away. “’Tis only fair. And who better than yer own flesh and blood, yeah?”

The sisters had clearly honed embarrassing their only brother to an art. Ben couldn’t imagine sparring with Owen this way. He grinned. “I can hardly wait.”

~*~*~*~

Gwen and Reina corralled Ben in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Quinn had made a token protest, then resigned himself to the inevitable. 

 

“Now then, young Benjamin,” Gwen began, settling at the foot of one of the twin beds, “ye must be knowin’ a few things if ye be intendin’ on makin’ a life with yer man.” Reina nodded, and plopped down on the floor at her sister’s feet, gesturing Ben to sit on the bed opposite.

 

“To begin with, he be more than a wee bit clumsy, yeah?” Gwen began. “Ever since he was in nappies.”

 

Ben frowned. “I know about his fall on the tennis court a few years ago, but-”

 

“Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it started *long* before that!” Quinn’s sisters laughed together. “He’s been damagin’ hisself practically since he came out of the womb. Fell off his trike when he was but three years old, and nearly bled to death on the spot!” 

 

Ben stared, and both women made a visible effort to compose themselves. “This was the way of it,” Gwen explained. “He turned the bloody thing over on hisself in the driveway, and the handlebar… well, it kind of laid him open. *Down there*,” she added meaningfully. “Ye mean ye’ve nae seen the mark? Never tell us ye’re nae sleeping together.”

 

Ben blushed at their earthy humor. Small wonder Quinn was so prudish outside the bedroom. “I don’t remember actually seeing a scar, no. But, after all,” he added, leaning forward with a furtive glance at the door, “there’s a lot of acreage to cover.”

 

Reina chortled appreciatively. “Ye’re a right winnin’ lad, Ben! Ye keep him in line, ye hear?” 

 

“Da used to tell the story of when Quinn was born,” Gwen said. “Told all his mates down at the pub that his firstborn weighed a whoppin’ twelve kilos at birth. ‘Och, the wonder of it!’ they said. Then, a couple weeks later, they asked how the babe was doin’. ‘Weighs a bit above nine kilos,’ Da said proudly. ‘What happened,’ they all cried. ‘Did he get sick?’ Da just smiled and said, ‘Sure, and isna he fit as a fiddle? Dinna we just have him circumcised?’”

 

Ben laughed out loud. “I can believe it!” he choked out. “I wish I’d known your father. Quinn talks about him a lot.”

 

“Aye, Da was a good man, God rest his soul,” Gwen agreed. “And Quinn’s a lot like him. The family name might nae be passin’ down through him, but anyone who knew Joseph Donovan sees him in his son.” She sobered. “And like our da, he’s got a big heart. Once ye’re in with him, ye’re fair in for life. Can ye be handlin’ that, young Benjamin?”

 

He nodded. “I love him,” he said simply.

 

“Even with his wee… handicap?” Reina asked, blue eyes twinkling wickedly.

 

Ben grinned. “Oh, I don’t think there’s been any permanent damage.”

 

“Ah, but ye see, the trike was but the first time,” she cautioned. “Dinna he ever tell ye any of this? Ye poor wee bugger.”

 

“You mean there’s *more*?” Ben whispered, in mock dismay. 

 

Gwen considered. “Ah, well, sure, and there was the time he got hurt playin’ with a bunch of girls, remember, Reina? He was about sixteen, and I was eleven, so ye’d have been maybe five or six, yeah?”

 

Reina nodded. “I remember him limpin’ about the house and moanin’ like a banshee for weeks.”

 

Ben was intrigued. “What happened?”

 

Gwen related, in excruciating detail, how Quinn and Mick (“Ye’ve not yet met Father Mick? Och, the shame of it!”) came home one afternoon, Mick supporting a deathly pale and badly limping Quinn. All Jenny could get out of either of them was that there’d been an accident at school. Jenny had shooed both girls out of the house and herded her son into the first-floor bedroom, commanding him to strip. Mortified, Quinn had begged to wait until their father returned home, but his mother was adamant. “She says to him, ‘Quinntrell Joseph Michael Donovan, I put the first pair of nappies on ye; ye’ve nothin’ I’ve not seen before,’” Gwen giggled. “What was the puir lad to do?”

 

By now, Ben had a fair idea of what was coming next. Talk about adding insult to injury… “How bad was it?” he asked, fearing the worst.

 

“Black and blue, it was, and all swoled up like a blood sausage,” Reina whispered, eyes wide. “We peeked in the window.” She winked at Ben. “Did the swelling ever go down?” she asked innocently. 

 

“*Reina*!” Gwen laughingly remonstrated, even as Ben blushed scarlet. 

 

She explained that Quinn and Mick had been watching a girls’ pick-up volleyball game, and had invited themselves to join in. One of Quinn’s teammates and he had both gone up to return a volley, and collided coming down. Needless to say, the game had come to a screeching halt, and Mick had loyally assisted his injured friend home. Jenny took one look and rang up the doctor, who came to the house. He prescribed two shots of whiskey for the pain, and the strongest possible athletic cup to be worn at all times, directing him to move as little as possible for at least a week. 

 

“Oh, my God,” Ben groaned. Could there be a more agonizing injury to any man? 

 

Gwen nodded sympathetically. “Y’know, I always wondered if that was maybe why he never married. Or if he went into biology to prove to hisself that he hadna gotten hisself neutered somewhere along the way.” Her wry grin took any sting out of the words. “But I’m guessin’ we were a wee bit off the mark. Sure, and we never expected him to be comin’ home with a bonny lad on his arm.” She squeezed Ben’s hand. “But ye’re entirely welcome, Ben, and ye ken we’d not be tellin’ ye any of this if we werena already likin’ ye.”

 

Ben gave a shaky laugh, still seeing Quinn hobbling around in his mind. “Aye, I ‘ken,’” he quipped weakly. “But does *Quinn* know you’re giving away all his secrets?”

 

“Ah, to be sure,” Gwen assured him. “He’d be wonderin’ what was wrong if we dinna!” Her smile was sister-fond. “He’s a fine man, Ben, none better, savin’ maybe me puir Sean, God rest his soul. And the family is over the moon that ye’re makin’ a life together. But try and make him come home a bit more often, yeah? Shove him on the damned plane, jump in after and bar the door behind ye. It’s nae as if he’s afraid of flyin’. Or *is* he?”

 

“I know he misses you all,” Ben said sincerely. “But his work keeps him awfully busy.”

 

“A man’s but half a man without his clan behind him, Ben,” Reina said seriously. “Drag his sorry arse over here once or twice a decade, canna ye? Quit makin’ puir Mum make the trip every time. She’s nae as young as she once was.”

 

“Has Quinn met yer family yet?” Gwen asked curiously.

 

Before Ben could answer, there was a knock at the door. “Well, hae ye convinced him to jump on the first plane back to the States yet?” Quinn leaned against the door frame. 

 

“Nae by half!” his sisters chorused in unison. “Yer man’s a brave soul, but sure and dinna we already know that, after he went and took up with the likes of ye! We’ll let ye have him back for a time, if ye promise to behave yerself while ye’re here.” 

 

Ben rose to his feet. “I got an earful, that’s for sure.” Gwen and Reina hooted derisively at their brother’s disgruntled expression. “Ladies, thank you for a most entertaining evening.”

 

“Out upon ye, ye pair of she-devils,” Quinn growled, pulling Ben out of the room. “Mick’ll be hearin’ from ye both in confession before the wedding fer sure. We’ll be biddin’ ye a good night, and the back of me hand to ye both.”

 

“G’night, Quinn darlin’,” Reina sang sweetly, as Gwen made a rude gesture in her brother’s direction. “’Tis good to hae you home again.”

 

Ben could hear both women laughing as Quinn herded him back down the stairs.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The cemetery next to St. James Catholic Church was quiet and dim, shaded by large overhanging oak trees and tall evergreens. Some of the graves looked to be generations old, others more recent. The air was hushed in the late afternoon. 

 

Quinn moved slowly through the headstones. Then he turned, waiting for Ben to join him, his blue eyes soft with remembrance. “This is me Da,” he said, gesturing to a medium-sized stone Celtic cross. Ben squatted down and read the inscription:

 

Seosamh Pádraig Lochlainn O’Donovan  
February 17, 1943 – June 9, 2011  
Fear Ceile Dirithe Agus Athair  
Luionn Se Le Haingil

 

He glanced inquiringly up at Quinn, who translated: “‘Devoted husband and father. He rests with the angels.’”

 

“That’s beautiful,” Ben said softly. He did the math in his head: Quinn’s father had died when Quinn was forty-four, eleven years older than Ben was now. 

 

Quinn moved toward a much smaller grave close by, all but covered in blooming shrubbery. He knelt by the tiny marker, touched it gently and bowed his head. Ben stayed where he was, not wanting to disturb what was obviously a very emotional moment. 

 

Quinn crossed himself, then rose awkwardly to his feet. He turned to Ben with a sad smile, and held out a hand. Ben couldn’t hold back a gasp as he read the tombstone:

 

Micheál Aindréas O’Donovan  
April 2, 1977 – October 9, 1981  
Dia Ar A Dtugtar Abhaile Go   
Flaithis Dé I Bhfad Ró-Luath

 

“Me baby brother,” Quinn said quietly. “He was but four years old when he was taken from us.” His voice was husky. “The inscription reads, ‘God called him home to Heaven far too soon.’”

 

“What happened?” Ben whispered. Quinn had never mentioned a brother. The child had been dead for over three decades; Quinn would have been little more than an adolescent himself. 

 

“A car bomb.” At Ben’s horrified look, Quinn nodded. “He was born during The Troubles, y’see. Belfast was a tinderbox. We were largely out of it up here, thanks be to God, but it made us a wee bit too complacent. Violence can have… a long arm’s reach.” He was silent for a moment. “He was playing with some friends near the house. A car was parked on the street some ways off. It… blew up, without warning. And the shrapnel…” Quinn closed his eyes against the painful memory. “They said he… he didn’t suffer.”

 

“Oh, God, Quinn,” Ben said helplessly, aching to touch, to comfort, but unsure if Quinn would allow it in such a public place. “Did they get the ones who did it?”

 

Quinn shook his head. “No one ever claimed responsibility. But two of the bairns perished, and another was badly injured.” He barked a bitter laugh. “Can you believe the feckin’ car was *empty*? Whoever they were targetin’ got clean away. The bloody bastards.” He coughed out a harsh dry sob. Ben pulled him into his arms, not caring who saw and objected. 

 

“I thought I might find ye here.”

 

Quinn straightened and turned. Ben stared at the cassocked priest standing a few feet away, brown eyes full of compassion. 

 

“Mick,” Quinn murmured, with a watery smile.

 

“Welcome home, Quinn.” The priest closed the distance between them and pulled him forward into a hug. “It’s been far too long.” 

 

So, this was “Father Mick”. Ben studied the tall slender man dressed in unadorned black. Brown hair, liberally streaked with grey. Laugh lines in the corners of eyes the color of milk chocolate. Even wrapped in the dignity of his robes of office, he seemed almost fragile next to Quinn’s broad shoulders and greater height. But there was a quiet strength in the mobile mouth that said he could face adversity and not falter.

 

“Mick, come meet Ben Kensington,” Quinn said, drawing him forward. “Ben, this is Father Micheál Darragh Tomás Kildare. He’ll be performin’ the wedding on Saturday.” 

 

The priest held out his hand. “Pleased to be makin’ your acquaintance, Mr. Kensington. Welcome to Ballymena.” The handshake was at once firm and gentle, and Ben could imagine those hands soothing a child’s fears, or easing a dying parishioner out of the world. 

 

“Thank you, Father,” Ben said politely. “I hope we’re not intruding-”

 

“Not at all, and I’m ‘Mick’ to pretty much anyone who knows me,” the priest replied. “When someone calls me ‘Father,’ I always expect to see puir auld Father Fitzpatrick standin’ behind me and lookin’ like a thundercloud. God rest his soul.” He crossed himself, and Quinn reflexively followed suit.

 

“Even after all these years, Mick?” Quinn teased. “Hae ye not gotten used to wearin’ the skirt in the family by now? Father Fitzpatrick’s been gone since God was a lad.”

 

“’Tis shameful ye are, Cuinn Seosamh Micheál O’Donovan, makin’ fun of me priestly raiment, right in front of God and everybody.” The twinkling brown eyes belied the reproof. “He’s an irreverent sod, Ben. Might I be callin’ ye Ben?” Ben quickly nodded, already warming to him. “Ah, good. Dinna want to be gettin’ off on the wrong foot.” He turned back to Quinn. “Come on inside. I put the kettle on, soon as I saw youse pull in.” 

 

~*~*~*~

The stone rectory was pleasantly cool. Ben glanced interestedly around the sitting room while Father Mick prepared tea. Quinn seemed very much at home, commenting on a few decorative changes since his last visit. There was a comfortable geniality that seemed to permeate the very walls, and Ben enjoyed watching Quinn interact with the man about whom he’d been curious since Jenny Donovan’s visit earlier in the year. The two men had grown up together, Ben knew, and after graduation, Quinn had done a brief stint in a Belfast research lab, while Mick had gone into seminary.

 

“Here we are,” said Mick, setting down a tray with cups and saucers, a ceramic teapot and various condiments, along with a plate of small cakes. “The tea will be needin’ a wee minute more. And before ye go askin’, boyo, the biscuits were delivered fresh this morning by one of the Auxiliary ladies. *I* dinna make ’em.” 

 

Quinn chuckled and gestured to Ben to help himself. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn was pleased to see Ben and Mick hit it off. He’d told himself in the weeks leading up to the trip that his boyhood friend surely wouldn’t shun them, but the small worry had niggled, nevertheless. The Church in recent years had become a bit more tolerant of same-sex relationships, but only to a point. Priest or not, Mick was family, as near and dear to Quinn’s heart as his two sisters. The sight of his brother’s tiny grave had affected him even more deeply than he’d anticipated. And, as with so many times before, Mick had quietly appeared, offering comfort and support. No one had been surprised he’d been called to the Lord’s service at an early age. 

 

Sitting in the small rectory, he felt as if he’d been gone only a few days. The same worn furniture, the same simple wooden crucifix on the wall over the dining table. Even the same ceramic tea set with which Quinn’s parents had gifted him when he finished his seminary studies and took up his first post, just with a few more nicks and chips. Not unlike themselves, he thought.

 

Sipping the strong tea, he leaned back in his chair and regarded his friend. “Mick, ye’ve gone and gotten grey and old,” he remarked, with a grin. 

 

“Pot, meet Kettle,” Mick retorted affably. “We’ll neither of us be seein’ forty-five again this side of Heaven.” He glanced at Ben, who was hastily mopping his chin. “Ach, now see what ye’ve gone and done, ye crazy? Ye’ll be givin’ this puir lad a heart attack.” He handed Ben another napkin. “Be ye all right, Ben? Never mind this fool; he’s only forgotten any manners his Mum and Da ever taught him.”

 

Quinn chuckled. “Mick and I hae been tearin’ each other down since we were babes in the cradle, Ben. And that’s been a fair handful of years, eh, Mick?”

 

Mick nodded comfortably. “He’s not much of one for deportment, but luckily, I’ve a thick skin.” He gestured to his hairline. “And sad to say, he be nae far off the mark. But at least we’ve both still *got* our hair, yeah?” He leaned back in his chair and crossed one knee over the other, the cassock falling in graceful folds about his legs to the floor. “So tell me of yerself, Mister Benjamin. We’ve heard only the bare bones of it. How did ye ever hae the misfortune to end up with the likes of him?” 

 

Ben smiled. “No misfortune, Father. I’m the lucky one.” The depth of emotion in his eyes made Quinn’s heart clench, and he had to remind himself to loosen his grip on his cup to avoid shattering it.

 

Mick’s brown eyes crinkled. “Ye’d best be watchin’ yerself, auld man,” he said, giving Quinn a mock-stern look. “He’s a good ’un. Dinna be messin’ things up.” 

 

Quinn nodded. “Dinna I know it.” He slid an arm around Ben’s shoulders, amused when Ben blushed at the openly possessive gesture. “So, tell me about this fool who’s aimin' to marry up with me Molly.”

 

“Ye’ve nae met him yet?” Mick asked, surprised.

 

“This evening,” Quinn replied. “She’s draggin’ him to Mum’s for supper. C’mon and join us, yeah? We’ll grill him proper.” 

 

“He’s a fine lad, Quinn. And he’d kiss the ground Molly walked on if she told him to. They’ll do well together, I’m thinkin’,” Mick said. “Didya think I’d marry them otherwise?”

 

Quinn sighed. “She be but a wee babe in nappies when I moved to the States, and now she be all grown up and ready to start a litter of her own,” he said plaintively. 

 

“And whose fault be that, I’d like to know?” Mick retorted. “Sure, and ye’ve kept yer distance from us. Fine thing, when it takes a weddin’ to get ye to show yer ugly face. Shameful, it is, and no mistake.” 

 

“Mea culpa.” Quinn struck his chest with his fist and grinned. 

 

“Ego te absolvo,” Mick solemnly intoned, then added with a grin and a wink at Ben, “as long as ye promise to come home more often.” 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Molly’s fiancé, Peter Jameson, was tall, with black hair and solemn blue eyes that followed her around the room. Quinn grudgingly pronounced him almost good enough for his lass. It took Pete several minutes to realize his leg was being pulled. Quinn was a master of the poker-face.

 

After dinner, Ben was hauled off for a pickup game of basketball on the back lawn with Cathal, Pete and the younger Donovans of both sexes. Quinn declined, citing his “senior” status, but watched from the solarium. 

 

“You’re not playing?” his mother asked, sitting down next to him. 

 

Quinn smiled. “Didn’t want to humiliate meself,” he said jokingly. “Rowdy bunch.”

 

“They are,” she agreed. She studied him silently for a few minutes. “Quinn, is something bothering you? You don’t seem quite… yourself.”

 

Quinn spoke reflectively, not taking his eyes off the game. “Just thinking how blessed I am to have such a loving family.” 

 

“Of course we love you,” Jenny affirmed, clasping his hand. “Did you ever doubt it?”

 

Quinn turned to her, eyes thoughtful. “You know I did, Mum. Because of…” He trailed off, but the meaning was clear.

 

Jenny hugged him. “I told you months ago that it wouldn’t be a problem. Gwen and Reina are thrilled you’ve found someone who makes you happy. That’s all that matters, to any of us. And Ben loves you very much; anyone can see that.”

 

Quinn’s voice was husky. “Thank ye for that, Mum. I *did* know it, down deep, but sometimes a man just needs to hear it.” 

 

They sat companionably together for several minutes. Then, “You knew Ben left the Academy, didn’t you? I think I wrote you about that.”

 

Jenny nodded. “He’d been there for a number of years, hadn’t he?”

 

“Over ten. But it was a dead-end job, and with everything else…” Quinn paused.

 

“Didn’t he say he’d found other employment?”

 

Quinn nodded. “A real up-and-coming company, called First Call. They pretty much took over and expanded on what he’d been doing single-handedly at the school, and then brought him on board to show them how he’d done it all those years. You should have seen the look on Mark Winters’ face when he walked in that first day with the rest of the team. It was brilliant.” 

 

Jenny smiled. “That’s splendid. I’m happy for him. And how much longer do you think you’ll keep teaching?” 

 

Quinn stared at his feet. “I’ve come close a couple of times to saying to hell with it, especially after… well, you know. But I don’t think I’m quite ready to take that step.”

 

“What would you do after?”

 

“Who knows? Research has always been my first love. I could go into private tutoring somewhere, or write articles for scientific journals. Or just sit back and rest on my laurels.” He grinned at Jenny’s incredulous snort.

 

“*You*? Sit back and grow roses? You’d be stir-crazy inside of a month.” She kissed his cheek. “But whatever you decide, I know you’ll do well at it.”

 

Quinn grinned. “I half expected you to ask if I’d be moving back to Ireland.”

 

“Well, of course, that’s always an option, sweetheart. For Ben, too. Lots of American companies have opened offices in Belfast, Dublin, Galway. The ‘Celtic Tiger’ has brought in many different nationalities. You could go into research again, as you said, or become a Professor Emeritus at one of the universities.”

 

Quinn chuckled. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

 

Jenny shook her head. “Just the occasional notion,” she said softly. “If you’re happy in the States, then that’s where you belong. I know we’re not as forward-thinking as other countries about… relationships, but we are moving in that direction. Who knows, one day Northern Ireland may follow the rest of the UK and legalize same-sex marriage.” Her eyes twinkled. “And you could always shack up.”

 

“*MUM*!” Quinn choked. “Ye never cease to amaze me. ‘Shack up’? Not even ‘live in sin?’ Where do ye come up with such things?”

 

“Oh, come, dear, it’s hardly anything new,” Jenny said, laughing. “Tell me, how do you get along with Ben’s family?”

 

“I’ve nae met them yet,” Quinn admitted. “We’re tryin’ to figure out the right time. His dad’s a history buff, and into the Rising and Mick Collins, of all things. I thought we’d go down to Dublin after the wedding, tour the GPO and the Gaol, maybe bring him back some stuff. Speakin’ of which, could we borrow some of Da’s books from the library?”

 

“Of course,” Jenny affirmed. “Take them. It’ll be good for you to have a common interest. And this being the Centenary of the Rising, what better time to visit? You’ve not been down to Dublin in ages. You’d probably not recognize it now.”

 

“We flew into Dublin,” Quinn reminded her. “So we got to see a wee bit of it when Molly drove us home. But you’re right, there was a lot more traffic than I remembered.”

 

A cheer from outside drew their attention. Apparently, the game was over. It was hard to tell who’d won, but no one seemed to care. Quinn caught Ben’s glance through the window and raised his fist in victory. Ben grinned and echoed the gesture, then yelped as Cathal grabbed him from behind, hoisting him about a foot in the air. Quinn grinned. 

 

“They’ll be heading inside to clean up,” Jenny said, rising from her seat. “I may have to send a few over to the cottage for a wash. Hope we’ve enough clean towels.”

 

Quinn rose with her. “Thanks, Mum,” he said softly.

 

Jenny smiled. “You’re entirely welcome, my love. Shall we rejoin the herd?”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Showered and in clean comfortable clothes, the sportsmen crowded back into the living room, sprawling on floor and furniture alike. Father Mick arrived as everyone was settling in, casually dressed in jeans and an open-necked black shirt. He was promptly buttonholed into one of the couches by Quinn’s younger nieces, but managed to disentangle himself long enough to accept a glass of whiskey. He was clearly the indulgent target of a serious case of hero worship.

 

Ben sat next to Quinn, trying to convince himself he wasn’t dreaming. He’d been pummeled, ribbed, cheered and jeered during the game, same as everybody else, and had even contributed a friendly insult or two, to shouts of approval. He found himself joining in the retelling of virtually every point on the basketball court, by either team. Both sides loudly claimed victory, but strangely no one seemed to know the final score. 

 

His eyes kept straying to the small upright piano against the far wall. He wondered if anyone would mind if he tried it out while they were there. That was probably the biggest thing he missed after leaving the Academy. He’d often wandered over to the Music Department and tickled the ivories after work, sometimes joined by some of the students in an impromptu jam session. He enjoyed playing, and one day hoped to afford a decent instrument of his own. Quinn would have been surprised to know that electronic keyboards and computer software just didn’t measure up to the real thing. 

 

“Alright, who’s up for some fiddlin’?” Molly’s brother Aiden asked, untangling his long legs from where he’d perched on the hearth. “I be in the mood for some music.” He reached behind him and brought out a leather case Ben hadn’t noticed before. His cousin Donal produced a tin whistle and trilled an arpeggio. After a bit of trial-and-error, they began a cheerful folk song, and the rest of the room clapped along. 

 

After three or four numbers, Quinn held up a hand for silence. “We be needin’ more than just a fiddle and a whistle, lads. Now yer man here,” he gestured to Ben, “be a grand one on the piano. What do ye say, love, can ye be drownin’ these two out?”

 

Ben gulped, and gave a weak grin. It was as if Quinn had read his mind. He hoped he wouldn’t embarrass himself. Settling on the bench, he reached for the nearest songbook. Several of the tunes were familiar from the St. Patrick’s Day concert in Boston. He played a short riff to check the tuning, then eased into one of Quinn’s favorites. Aiden and Donal joined in, and the rest of the room applauded enthusiastically when they were done.

 

“You’re very good, Ben,” Jenny commented. “You must have taken lessons as a child.”

 

“A few years, yes, ma’am,” Ben said shyly. “This is a beautiful instrument.”

 

She nodded. “It was mine growing up. I had it brought over from the Manor House when we settled my father’s estate. It doesn’t get nearly the attention it deserves, but I enjoy having it here, all the same.”

 

“I remember how pleased you were when it arrived, Mum,” Quinn said. “You couldna stop touchin’ it, then you sat right down and played, what was it, Mozart? Bach? I dinna recall, but it was grand.”

 

“It was Chopin.” She seated herself next to Ben, and gently stroked the keys, then Ben watched, enthralled, as she played the entire piece from memory. Everyone sat in reverential silence until the final tender notes died away and she laid her hands in her lap, head bowed. 

 

“Mum, that was beautiful,” Reina breathed. “Absolutely brilliant.” There were respectful murmurs of agreement. Only Ben saw the unshed tears shining in her eyes, and unobtrusively squeezed her hand. She gave him a grateful smile, then took a deep breath and straightened.

 

“Enough of these silly vapors,” she said briskly. “Let’s have something we can all sing along with. Ben, start us off, there’s a good lad. Something snappy, if you please.”

 

Ben grinned and swung into an upbeat rendition of “As I Roved Out.” The others quickly joined in, more or less on key.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Later that evening, Quinn walked Mick to his car. “Thanks for comin’ over tonight, mate,” he said.

 

“Any time,” Mick replied. “I’m an O’Donovan in all but name, after all. Looks like Ben’s settlin’ in well, yeah?”

 

Quinn nodded. “They’ve gone out of their way to make him feel welcome. I wasna real sure about Pete at first, but he seems a decent sort.”

 

“He’s a good man, Quinn. He and Molly will do well together, I’m thinkin’. Just give him a chance.”

 

“He asked me to come see him tomorrow at his office. I’m guessin’ he wants to talk about a prenup.”

 

Mick opened his car door. “Your mum mentioned something about it last Sunday after Mass. Let me know if I can help.” 

 

Quinn hesitated. “If ye’re nae too busy, I’d like to stop by, talk about the weddin’ a bit. I’m walkin’ her down the aisle, ye know.”

 

Mick closed the car door. “Let’s go for a walk.” He started toward the street, and Quinn followed. He glanced back at the house, thinking he probably should let Ben know, but he really *did* need to talk to his friend, and there might not be a better opportunity.

 

The two men made their way down the side of the road. At that hour, there was little traffic and the moon was bright enough to see where they were going. Quinn was reminded of countless similar strolls growing up, while they’d wrestled with the affairs of the world. Mick was his brother in bond, if not in blood.

 

“I’m a wee bit worried about Saturday,” he began, once they were out of sight of the house. Mick said nothing, waiting for him to continue. “It bein’ a Nuptial Mass, and…”

 

“Never be tellin’ me ye’ve gone and turned Prod,” Mick said, with a smile. 

 

“It’s nae that,” Quinn protested, struggling to give voice to his fears. “But, I’m wonderin’ if I can take communion, seein’ as how…”

 

“Ye mean, because of ye and Ben,” Mick said matter-of-factly.

 

“Aye,” Quinn said heavily. “Mick, I’ve not been to Confession in, well, a long time. I’m nae about to apologize for lovin’ him, and I willna be a hypocrite. But at the same time, I dinna want to cause a dust-up for Molly and Pete on their special day. I’m walkin’ her down the aisle; people will know. What do I do?”

 

Mick was silent for a moment. “Ye already know the answer in yer head, lad. What does yer *heart* tell you?” 

 

Quinn shook his head in frustration. “Damn it, Mick, stop talkin’ like a bloody priest!”

 

“I *am* a priest,” Mick reminded him, “and ye’ve come to me *as* a priest, not just as yer friend. I’m also the one who’ll be performin’ the ceremony.” He put his hands on Quinn’s shoulders. “I’ll nae recite catechism or Catholic dogma. I’d be as much a hypocrite as ye if I did. But, regardless of the Church’s official position, I know this: love is love, wherever and with whomever ye find it. We spend our entire lives lookin’ for it. Yer mum and da loved each other all their days together. Same with Gwen and Sean, and Reina and Cathal. And I hae prayed that one day ye, too, would be findin’ the love ye deserve.” 

 

The evening mist and the moonlight seemed to coalesce around him for a moment. “Quinn, what ye and Ben feel for each other is a gift from God. Accept it, thank Him for it, and make it yer own.” He turned and hoisted himself up onto a nearby rock wall. “Make yer confession to me, here and now. Release yer fears. God will hear you.”

 

Quinn was silent. Then, tears in his eyes, he knelt clumsily on the ground, placed his palms on Mick’s knees, and bowed his head. 

 

“Bless me, Father, for I hae sinned…”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Next morning, Cathal picked up Ben for a tour of his Coast Guard station, followed by a trip out on his fishing boat. He boasted that they’d be bringing back dinner for everyone, and to have the frying pans ready.

 

After breakfast, Quinn drove into town to be fitted for his wedding clothes. He finished up just in time to keep his other standing appointment.

 

Pete Jameson opened the door to Quinn’s knock. “Come in, Dr. Donovan, please. Thanks for coming.”

 

“My pleasure,” Quinn said politely. “Ye said ye wanted to discuss something with me, in private.” He kept his face and voice carefully neutral, a tactic he’d honed to a fine art from years of dealings with Mark Winters or the Board of Governors. “Butterflies in yer stomach?” 

 

Pete actually blanched. Damn, the lad was even more nervous than Quinn would have expected. “Relax, lad. I only asked because the wedding’s almost on us. Most fellas would be sweatin’ bullets about now.”

 

Pete gave him a shaky smile. “I’m countin’ down the hours, and that’s a fact. I love yer niece, Dr. Donovan-”

 

“*Quinn*.”

 

Pete nodded. “Thank ye, Quinn. I dinna want to presume…”

 

“Ye’re goin’ to be family, lad,” Quinn said. “I think that entitles ye to use me first name. I’m only ‘Dr. Donovan’ to me students back in the States.”

 

“Yes, of course,” Pete agreed hastily. “Anyway, thank ye again for comin’. I- I need yer help.” He fell silent for several minutes, and Quinn waited patiently. He already knew from Jenny and Gwen what the lad wanted to discuss.

 

Pete drew a deep breath. Reaching into his desk drawer, he pulled out a very legal-looking document. “This isna easy for me,” he began.

 

“Ye’ve another wife and family tucked away down south,” Quinn said composedly.

 

“Wha- *no*! Of course not!” Pete sputtered, then belatedly realized Quinn was joking. “Alright, ye got me on that one. Molly warned me about ye. I should hae listened, yeah?”

 

“It does run in the family, lad. Better forewarned, I always say.” Quinn leaned forward. “Now, what’s this ye’re wantin’ to show me?” He reached out for the document. He read it through, then glanced up at the anxious young barrister. “Very thorough.”

 

“Ye understand why it’s necessary, I’m sure,” Pete said stiffly.

 

“I do,” Quinn affirmed. “But I gather yer wee bride dinna agree.” 

 

Pete sighed. “I love Molly, sir. And I intend to give her a good life. I willna hae anyone thinkin’ I married her for her money. But she’s a woman in love, and dinna care what anybody thinks.” 

 

Quinn nodded. “And ye’ve explained this to Molly?”

 

“Of course I hae. But her head’s full of hearts and flowers and ‘happily ever after,’ and she just dismisses everything I say.” Another heavy sigh. “In me line of work, it’s best to hae everythin’ in writin’. This just affirms that I’ll nae be touchin’ the trust fund ye set up for her. It stays in *her* name, and passes only to children of her body.” His chin jutted proudly. “I make a good livin’, and I can provide for her. She’ll never go wantin’ while I hae breath in me body, I promise ye that.”

 

Quinn smiled. “I’m on yer side, lad. And I know Molly understands. She’s young, maybe a wee bit flighty, especially with all this weddin’ prep goin’ on. Give her a bit of time; she’ll come around.”

 

Pete shook his head. “I canna marry her without it, sir,” he said sadly.

 

Quinn stared. “Ye’re sayin’ the wedding’s off if she willna sign?”

 

An unhappy nod. “Aye. If we wait until we’re husband and wife, it might not even be bindin’. And besides, she’d never sign it then. It *has* to be before Saturday.” Pete leaned forward. “Would ye be after helpin’ me to convince her?”

 

Quinn’s respect for his future nephew-in-law rose several notches. The lad would be a good match for Molly, in body and in spirit. She’d never walk over him, as she had so many before him. If they didn’t kill each other, he predicted a long and happy life together. And a litter of little Jamesons in short order. He folded up the document and stood. “May I be takin’ this with me?” Pete nodded. “Good. Dinna worry. We’ll work on her.”

 

They shook hands, and Quinn tucked the prenup in his jacket pocket. He had his work cut out for him.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Oh, Uncail, not ye, too!” Molly moaned. “Ye’re all actin’ like ye think we’ll not be together more than a week!”

 

“It’s nae that, lass. But ye’re marrying a barrister, and his mind is naturally goin’ to run to the what-if’s. Just sign and be done with it.”

 

Jenny spoke up from across the table. “It’s a small enough thing Pete’s asking of you. We’ll lock it in the safe and that’s the end of it. No one’s the wiser-”

 

“It’s nobody else’s business!” Molly said heatedly. “Anyone who thinks he’s marryin’ me for that damned trust fund can bloody well nae bother comin’ to the weddin’! *I* know he’s nae, and so do all of youse! Besides, it’s *me* own money, so it is. Why canna I choose how it’s spent?”

 

“Molly, dinna be rude to yer uncle and your grandmother,” rebuked her mother sternly. “They’re the ones who made sure the money was there for ye, and no one but yer groom is saying ye canna do with it as ye like. Uncle Quinn and Gran dinna put him up to this.”

 

Molly’s green eyes were stormy. “He keeps sayin’ it’s for the children. Well, of *course* it is! *Our* children! His and mine! I dinna see the point!”

 

Quinn clasped her hand between his own. “Ye’re right, darlin’, and that’s what Pete wants, too. But marriage be a two-way street, lass. Sometimes both sides hae to give a little, just to keep things running smooth. Dinna be selfish; sign the paper and go back to yer weddin’ prep, there’s me bonny lass.”

 

“Ye’re a fine one to talk, Uncail,” she retorted, jerking her hand away. “What do *ye* know about marriage? Ye’ve never been to the altar.” Her eyes narrowed. “Would ye be after makkin’ yer *Ben* sign somethin’ like that? No, ye would not.” She shook her head. “It’s naught but old-fashioned nonsense, and I willna *do* it!” She folded her arms across her chest and slumped, scowling, in her chair.

 

Jenny rose to her feet with a sigh. “No one can force you, sweetheart. You’re a grown woman, and you know your own mind.” She handed the prenup to Quinn, who placed it back in his jacket. “Come, Gwen, we’ll need to muster the troops. Better now than Saturday morning.”

 

Molly frowned. “What do ye mean, Gran?”

 

“Well, dear,” Jenny said, “Pete says he can’t get married without it. You say you won’t sign it. So evidently the wedding’s off.” She beckoned to Gwen and Quinn.

 

“… Mum?” Molly’s voice was uncertain. “Gran, ye’re not serious? If this be yer idea of a joke, it isna funny.” 

 

Jenny’s glance at her daughter and son commanded them to follow her lead. “I don’t see any other way, darling. If there’s no meeting of the minds, then how can you and Pete say ‘I do’ on Saturday? Quinn, please ring up Father Mick. Best he hears it from you. And then he can help notify the guests. And there’s the cake, and the flowers, and the band-” She started for the door, ticking items off on her fingers.

 

“All right, all right, I’ll *sign* the feckin’ thing!” Molly cried. “Bloody hell, give it to me, Uncail. Who’s got a pen?”

 

Quinn returned to the table. “Be sure, lass,” he warned, tactfully overlooking her unladylike outburst. “This is for good and always.” He laid the prenup and his Mont Blanc fountain pen in front of her. Gwen and Jenny breathlessly remained where they were.

 

“Aye, I’m sure,” Molly muttered vengefully, as she initialed each page and then signed her name. “Ye’re not foolin’ anyone, the lot of youse. Holy Mother of God, it’s a trial bein’ a part of this family. I *told* Pete we should shack up. *He’s* the one wanted the whole bloody weddin’, not *me*! There,” she said, capping the pen and practically throwing it at her uncle. “Happy now?” Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. 

 

“Aye,” Quinn soothed, tucking the document safely in his jacket and letting her sob into his shirtfront. “Thank ye, lovey.” Over her head, he nodded at his mother and sister. 

 

Crisis averted. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

That night, lying next to a lightly snoring Ben, Quinn couldn’t stop thinking about Molly’s challenge. It had always felt natural and right for him to pick up the tab for their comfortable lifestyle. He had a good income with the Academy. He’d invested the majority of his inheritance from his grandfather, and the interest allowed for the occasional luxury. 

 

Ben, on the other hand, took frugality to a whole new level. Quinn well remembered what it was like to have to scrimp and save, and it gave him pleasure to be able to share the finer things in life he himself had come to appreciate. It was a delicate dance of diplomacy, as Ben’s stiff-necked pride flatly refused to allow Quinn or anyone else to, in his words, “keep” him. He’d do without rather than be beholden to anyone, even Quinn. Maybe *especially* him. Ironically, that stubborn self-reliance was one of the many things Quinn loved about him, even while it sometimes drove him right up the wall. 

 

But what about down the road? Painful as it might be to contemplate, he *was* seventeen years older than Ben, and odds were pretty good he’d predecease him at some point. His pension, his life insurance, the brownstone, the Jag, the antiques… in short, everything that was himself in his mind, rightfully belonged to Ben. But in the eyes of the law he was a single man with no natural heirs, apart from his sisters and their children. He’d quietly updated his Will before they’d left for Ireland, naming Ben as administrator and principal beneficiary of his estate, but if challenged, would it hold up in court? He’d lived in the States for more than half his lifetime, but retained his UK citizenship out of family loyalty. He considered himself, first and foremost, an Irishman, regardless of where he laid his hat. Would he need to become a U.S. citizen in order to protect the man he loved?

 

And what about details like health issues and the like? If he became incapacitated, would Ben still be protected? Maybe not, since they weren’t *legally* a couple. He really needed to talk to a family law attorney when they got home. Ben was his responsibility now. 

 

Closing his eyes, he drifted into a troubled sleep.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Next morning, they rose early and headed north for the Giant’s Causeway. Jenny sent them off with huge commuter mugs of tea and a basket of still-warm muffins.

 

They strolled around the Visitor Center, then joined a tour group to walk down to the Causeway proper. The guide gave a brief history of the area and joked with Ben that, as the tourist who had traveled the furthest, he’d be expected to pick up the tab for everyone on the return trip. At least Ben hoped he was kidding. Sometimes it was hard to tell.

 

They slowly made their way down the steep incline, stopping periodically to look at the various rock formations around the inlet. Ben’s favorite was the Dragon. He knew he’d never watch “Dragonheart” the same way again: the similarity to the scene of Sean Connery’s Draco camouflaging himself as a boulder to elude Dennis Quaid’s avenging knight was uncanny.

 

Internet pictures didn’t do the Causeway justice. Clusters of pentagonal pylons of volcanic rock in varying heights stretched as far as the eye could see along the coastline. Even though Ben *knew* it was a naturally occurring geological phenomenon, it was all too easy to imagine Finn MacCool tossing pillars across the channel to Scotland to make a bridge between the two lands. Sorry, Quinn, but Molly was right, he thought. The legends are a lot more fun.

 

They climbed to the top of one of the outcroppings and stood looking out across the water. Despite the groups of people wandering around at will, it felt as if they were all alone, in that one precious moment. Quinn slid an arm around his waist and their lips met in a soft, sweet kiss. A smattering of applause behind them made both men turn and grin. 

 

“Love you,” Ben whispered, eyes shining.

 

“Love you, too,” Quinn responded. “Welcome to my world.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

After dinner that night, Quinn and Ben walked in comfortable silence to a small park near the house. It was one of the many things Quinn cherished about their relationship, the ability to commune without words. The soft twilight gave the surroundings an ethereal, almost dream-like glow. 

 

He sighed, realizing just how much he’d missed his homeland, his family, even the erratic climate. He loved the States, loved his work, his friends and colleagues, but he was a man with a foot in two worlds. 

 

As if sensing his mood, Ben slipped a hand into his, and Quinn smiled. What was important was right *here* beside him. His partner, his heart, his very soul. The rest faded into inconsequence as he gazed into leaf-green eyes that bored into his being and gently laid everything bare. 

 

“Where are you?” Ben asked softly, stroking his thumb over their joined hands. “You’re far away. Take me with you?”

 

“Always,” Quinn answered. Ben was a loving stowaway in his head and heart, a welcome piece of carry-on baggage wherever he went. He motioned to a bench. “Let’s sit, yeah?” 

 

Quinn stretched his legs out before him and leaned back with a sigh. He packed his pipe and lit it, chuckling as Ben inhaled deeply of the fragrant tobacco. “Shall we be after gettin’ ye a pipe of yer own, love? Ye seem to enjoy mine more than I do,” he teased.

 

Ben shook his head. “I just associate the aroma with you. I remember smelling it on your clothing that first day in the lab, and in the car after the Halloween party, and… you know,” he said sheepishly. “It’s part of what you are.”

 

“It is,” Quinn agreed. “I’ve smoked for lo these many years. Too old to change now.” He laid an arm across the back of the bench, and Ben slid into his loose embrace. A family of ducks moved across the pond in front of them, as sounds of the night began to emerge. A perfect ending to a perfect day.

 

After several minutes of quiet contemplation, Quinn tamped out the spent tobacco onto the ground, carefully checking for stray embers. Ben’s eyes were closed, and he appeared to be dozing. Quinn studied the fine features, stowing away the memory. He spoke quietly, so as not to startle the younger man into wakefulness. “Ben, be ye with me?” 

 

Green eyes opened, and a lazy smile touched the lips. “Always. Especially when you talk like that.”

 

“Like what?” Puzzled.

 

“Your brogue. Can’t you hear yourself? Practically ever since we got here. It’s like you’ve never left. And I hear some of the people in town speaking Irish. It’s almost… musical.”

 

Quinn smiled. “Probably a reflex. Most native-borns can speak the Gaeilge, even after centuries of the English tryin’ to stamp it out. There’s a school for it at Inishmore, on the Aran Islands, costs about nine hundred dollars. If a student speaks even a single word other than Irish more than three times, he or she is automatically shipped home. No exceptions, and no refund. Now *that’s* some serious study.” He chuckled. “I’ll try to remember-”

 

“Don’t,” Ben said, shaking his head. “I love it. It’s just that you’re doing it all the time here. Back home, you usually just sound ‘Irish’ when you’re mad, or sometimes when we’re making love. Now you’re home, and it’s like I’m seeing the *real* Quinn Donovan.”

 

“Well, here’s hopin’ ye like him, because he’s nae likely to change,” Quinn joked, stroking Ben’s auburn hair. “Ye’re stuck with me, laddie. Can ye be livin’ with that?”

 

Ben leaned into the caress and stared up at him. “Absolutely,” he whispered. Quinn was transfixed by the depth of the emotion in the green eyes. The world narrowed to just the two of them.

 

Quinn tried to speak, but his throat seemed to have closed up. “Ben,” he said softly, then stopped, trying to sort out the thoughts whirling in his head. “Ben,” he began again, and Ben smiled patiently, letting him take his time. So knowing, so gentle, so loving. 

 

“Ben,” he said a third time. “I dinna often find meself in this predicament,” he said, and Ben’s eyebrows rose. “That is, in nae bein’ able to say what I want to. It’s never been a problem for me. Until now.” How inane he sounded, even to himself, but his lad was paying close attention, waiting for him to find his footing. “I love ye, Beircheart Liam,” he began, deliberately using the Irish translation of Ben’s name.

 

Ben laid his head on Quinn’s shoulder. “And I love ye, Cuinn Seosamh Micheál O’Donovan,” he said softly, with a fair imitation of his brogue.

 

“How’d ye know about the Michael?” Quinn asked, surprised. 

 

“Your mother, your sisters, Father Mick. It was your confirmation name.”

 

Quinn nodded. “It was me way of keepin’ wee Michaleen’s memory close to me. Most people find four names on a business card a bit much, so I dinna often use it.” 

 

“Good Irish Catholic lad. Mick said you were even an altar boy. Hey, could we go to Mass on Sunday? I’d love to attend a service in the church where you grew up. Other than the Nuptial Mass, I mean.”

 

“Certainly. Mum’d probably insist, though ye know I dinna attend much back home.” He grinned. “And Mick might send out the bleedin’ IRA if we dinna show.” 

 

“It’s a beautiful church. I love the stained glass windows.”

 

“Da’s grandparents contributed the one to the left of the altar. All three of us were baptized and confirmed there. Mum and Da were married there. She had to promise to raise her bairns in the Faith, then she converted before I was born.”

 

“She loved him. I think she’d have agreed to anything, as long as they could be together,” Ben said sagely. “It’s like a fairy tale, complete with a wicked witch. Or… warlock.” A reference to Quinn’s late grandfather in England, who had disowned his only child and heir when she’d refused to give up her dashing Irish Catholic lover. Jenny clearly had no regrets.

 

“She did,” Quinn affirmed. “And they taught their children to love with our whole hearts, and to be standin’ up for what we believe in.” He touched Ben’s cheek with a blunt finger. “And damn the consequences,” he added meaningfully.

 

Ben drew his head down for a kiss. “You’ve learned that lesson very well, Professor,” he said.

 

Quinn drew a deep steadying breath. “Aye. And it’s for that reason I’m wantin’ to be sayin’ this to ye now.” He paused. “Ben, we’ve had a good run, though not without our troubles. But ye’ve made my life complete, in ways that I never knew were lackin’. I love ye with all my heart, and I want ye always in my life.”

 

Ben nodded. “I’m here,” he said simply.

 

“Aye, ye are, but I’ve come to realize that it’s not enough, just the havin’ of ye with me. I want to take care of ye, to share everything I am and I hae with ye, now and always. And to know that when I’m gone, you’ll *still* hae everything that we hae now. The house, the money, me pension, me life insurance, everything. This is very important to me.” He paused again, fumbling for the right words. Ben’s face was still, his eyes somber. He was listening, but Quinn wasn’t sure he was getting the message. How had it sounded so simple in his head before? 

 

Shifting on the bench, he turned to face Ben directly and took both his hands in his own. “Marry me, Ben. Be me partner, me husband, whatever ye call it when two men are legally joined together for their lifetimes. Make up a word if ye hae to, but *be* with me, now and forever.”

 

Ben sat quietly for a long moment, studying their clasped hands. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, “No.” 

 

Just the one word, but Quinn’s heart shattered like glass. “No?” he choked out. “Ye’re *refusin’* me?” 

 

“No, love,” Ben said gently. “I’m not refusing *you*, just the idea of *marrying* you. At least, for now.” He put a hand to Quinn’s lips to still the protests. “I don’t need a ring on my finger, or one in my nose, to keep me with you. I love you. I’m *with* you. We have everything we need already.”

 

Quinn blinked. “I don’t think I understand,” he said, trying not to sound bitter. Ben loved him, but wouldn’t marry him?

 

“I think you do, really,” Ben said tenderly. “You’re worried about getting older, and you think I’m going to up and leave you again, that you’ll wind up alone. What I did before was stupid, and wrong, no matter how well-intentioned. I know that now. But, Quinn, I’m *here*. For as long as you’ll have me, for the rest of our lives, if that’s what you want. Okay?”

 

“No, it is not ‘okay,’” Quinn answered, firmly in control once again. “You are partially correct, in that I have had concerns about such things from time to time, but that is *not* why I asked you to marry me. I’m not trying to trap you. But if something *did* happen to me, I need to know that you’d be provided for. And, legally speaking, that is a minefield that keeps me awake nights. If I predecease you (which you have to admit is likely, given the difference in our ages), I want to know that you’d be entitled to my full estate. My life insurance, pension, the house, everything. That’s part of loving, too. You have everything I own as long as I’m alive, but after I’m gone requires more than merely ‘shacking up’.” 

 

~*~*~*~

 

To Ben’s dismay, the brogue had abruptly disappeared from Quinn’s voice. This was ‘Professor Donovan’ lecturing him on all the cut-and-dried reasons behind his proposal. It sounded more like a job offer than a proposal. The romantic in Ben cried out for fond embraces, vows of fidelity, a marriage built on love, not death benefits. What did all the money in the world matter if he had to forever lose the man he loved to get it? It was just… wrong, and he couldn’t listen to any more of it.

 

“You make it sound like a business merger,” he said flatly. “I don’t *care* about the money; don’t you get that? I just want *you*.” He would not let anyone think he was using Quinn as a ‘sugar daddy,’ now or ever. Yet here was Quinn, essentially trying to *buy* his affections, to play Lord of the Manor and “protect” poor little Benjy from being thrown out in the cold before Quinn was cold in his grave. Did he know something he hadn’t let on? His hands began to shake and he pulled them away, struggling for calm.

 

“Don’t be naïve, Ben,” Quinn was saying. “Marriage isn’t just about two people falling in love. It’s two *lives* becoming one, two futures blending together. I want that for us, *all* of it, but I’m not going to apologize for also wanting the ‘business merger,’ as you put it.” He took a deep breath. “Mum and Da lived on love, because it was all they had. I know exactly how much they sacrificed, so the girls and I could have a decent life. We have a chance to make a life for ourselves, but *only* if we make it legal. Love binds us together, but the money, the house, the pension, all that is part of it. too. Love me, Ben, but love *all* of me. *Take* all of me, not just the… the cheap parts.”

 

Ben sighed. “I hear you,” he said quietly. “But it sounds so damned… sterile. I want *you*, Quinn Donovan, not the Estate of Quinntrell Joseph Michael Donovan, Ph.D. I’d love you every bit as much if you were a pauper. I know it sounds childish, but it’s true. I couldn’t care less about the size of your bank account.” 

 

“You say that now,” Quinn replied, “but, remember, you’ve never known me *without* it. I’ve made a good life, and I want to share it with you, *all* of it, and to know that you’ll *still* have it after I’m gone. It’s a cold hard fact, lad, but money *does* make living a lot easier. Take it from one who’s been there.” He reached again for Ben’s hands, gripping them tightly in his own. “Would you marry me if I gave it all up?” he asked facetiously. “Sold the brownstone, the antiques, retired from the Academy and dug in the dirt for a living? Or worse, if I threw it all away and expected *you* to support us both? I hardly think so.” 

 

Ben closed his eyes. “Quinn,” he said firmly, “I’d love you if you didn’t have two pennies to rub together. I fell in love with you long before you told me about your inheritance.” He laced his fingers with Quinn’s, and brought both hands to his lips. “I hear what you’re saying. I just hate seeing it reduced to… to numbers on a ledger.” 

 

Quinn’s face was unreadable in the deepening shadows, and Ben struggled to give voice to his feelings, knowing how easily the wrong words could wound in such a vulnerable moment. “I *love* you. With every breath in my body. You know that.” No response, just that steely-blue gaze that seemed to bore into his very soul. Like a cat watching a mouse hole, he thought ruefully. “You’re caught up in all the wedding excitement with Molly and Pete, I get that. So am I. But we’ve only just gotten back together. I’ve just started a new career. What’s the rush?” He tried to smile, to lighten the mood, even just a little. 

 

Quinn blinked. His glance slid away for a moment, then returned. Good, thought Ben, he’s listening. 

 

“And there’s something else.” He paused, searching the beloved face, and was rewarded with a small guarded nod, silent permission to continue. “I think it’s just not the right… time, for either of us. Not because we don’t love each other,” he added hastily, “but because, well… There’s been such a mad ‘rush to the altar’ on same-sex marriage lately. The second it became legal, couples raced to the courthouse, wanting to be the first in line. And now there’s already same-sex *divorces*, just a few months after they promised ‘’til death do us part.’” 

 

The words came faster now, almost tumbling over each other. “It’s like a… a fad, a novelty, the latest ‘In Thing,’ and everyone wants to be a part of it, whether it’s right for them or not. But you and I aren’t lemmings, jumping over a cliff into the sea. We’re us. And if we decide to tie the knot, it should be for all the right reasons, not just because it’s… *permissible*.”

 

Quinn nodded slowly, but apparently he wasn’t going to speak until Ben had his say. “I’m *not* ashamed of us, and I know you aren’t, either. But at the same time, getting married is going to make things a lot less ‘private.’ We’d be telling the whole world that we’re a couple, practically rubbing the Board’s noses in it. Is that really a smart move right now?”

 

“I think ye be confusin’ marriage with a weddin’,” Quinn said wryly.

 

Ben smiled, secretly relieved to hear Quinn beginning to revert again to the Irish way of speaking. “Am I? I don’t think either of us would be happy with a quick trip to City Hall, or finding some Justice of the Peace.” Quinn grimaced in distaste. “Of course not. We’d want a *wedding*, with a priest and music and flowers, and all our friends and family. And that’s *not* keeping it on the down low.” 

 

“We canna *hae* a priest marry us,” Quinn said heavily. “The Church doesna recognize same-sex marriage, even where the State says it’s legal. Ye know that.”

 

“I do know, and I also know that’s hurtful to you,” Ben said earnestly, squeezing their fingers together. “But that doesn’t mean things can’t change down the road. All the more reason to wait. In a perfect world, Mick would marry us and we’d have a big calleigh afterward.” He stared pleadingly into the blue eyes of the man he loved. “Please. Let’s not settle for what we *can* have, and then regret it the rest of our lives.” 

 

Quinn sighed heavily. “Ye make a good argument. And I suppose it would be a bit of an ‘up yers’ to the Board. Not that I’d mind, given how they’ve seen fit to meddle in our private affairs too much already. But I dinna think either of us has any wish to be becomin’ ‘poster children’ for some avant-garde on-campus group.” 

 

“Exactly,” Ben said, raising Quinn’s hand to his lips. “It’s nobody’s business but ours. And those with whom we choose to share it.”

 

“But will ye think about what we’ve said? Knowin’ that I’m hearin’ what ye’re sayin’, but hearin’ me as well?” 

 

“You’re like a dog with a bone,” Ben teased gently. “I love you, and I want us to be together for the rest of our lives, just as much as you do. But I also want the ‘happily ever after,’ not just a quick trip to City Hall and a piece of paper.” He stood and pulled Quinn to his feet as well, slipping into his embrace. “I’m *not* saying no,” he whispered into the broad chest, “just not yet. Okay?” 

 

He felt the strong arms tightening around him, the gentle kiss to the top of his head. Terms accepted. For now.

 

~*~*~*~

 

He was walking down a dirty, ragged aisle, toward a tumbledown altar. The tiny church was dilapidated, the stained glass windows cracked, even shattered in places. There were holes in the roof, and rain was leaking in. Through the heavy mist, he could just make out Quinn’s face ahead. A shadowy figure stood in the sacristy, in a cheap, ill-fitting suit. No vestments, not even a cassock. There was tinny recorded music from somewhere, more dirge than celebration. 

 

Quinn came to his side and they joined hands. Wow, you’d think he could look a little bit happier, Ben thought glumly. 

 

“Ye’re here to git hitched.” The voice was a flat, bored monotone. Quinn’s face was stony, his hand in Ben’s ice-cold. Ben glanced down. They were *handcuffed* to each other! Great ugly metal manacles, and no key in sight.

 

“Is this it?” Ben asked, raising their joined wrists. “Is this all there is?” 

 

The suit pointed back down the aisle. The brownstone, the Jag and the Mustang, piles of furniture, and ragged sacks with dollar signs peeling off. “You got it all, sweet little sugar baby.” His eyes were a pair of black holes. “Ya done real good for yerself there.”

 

“No!” Ben cried, struggling to free himself. “I don’t *want* it! I don’t want your money, Quinn! I just want *you*!” 

 

“All yers,” echoed in his ears. Quinn’s clothes suddenly morphed into rags. His leering grin was full of rotting and missing teeth. Before Ben’s horrified eyes, his skin fell away, leaving a decaying corpse. “You have it all now,” he whispered. “There’s no way out. No way out… no way out...” A coffin appeared behind him and he slowly fell back into it, dragging Ben with him by their handcuffed wrists…

 

He woke up in a cold sweat. God, it had been so *real*…

 

~*~*~*~

 

Mick returned from the bar with two glasses of stout, and sat down beside Ben, so they could hear each other over the noise in the pub. Ben took a cautious sip, and Mick smiled. “I hear ye be nae much of a drinker, Ben, but ye can nurse that for quite a while, and none’ll be the wiser for it,” he explained. “Just remember to look at the horizon over the top of the glass, and ye’ll be gettin’ the beer instead of the foam in yer mouth.”

 

Ben nodded, wiping his lips with a napkin and reaching for the basket of pretzels on the table. “It’s not bad,” he said judiciously. “I’m just not used to warm beer.”

 

Mick nodded. “Aye, ye Yanks drink it cold.” He saluted Ben with his glass and took a long swallow. “More fer the rest of us,” he said, with a grin.

 

They sat quietly, watching the other patrons. Quinn was engaged in an animated conversation with a couple of men Ben didn’t recognize. There was a good deal of laughter and slapping of shoulders and fists thumping on the bar to emphasize a point. He looked like he was enjoying himself. 

 

“He’s nae been home for a bit,” Mick commented. “His mates hae been missin’ him.”

 

“I can tell,” Ben agreed, with a smile. “Lots of catching up to do.”

 

“I’ve been wantin’ to talk to ye without the great amadon around,” Mick went on, leaning forward over his glass. “There’s somethin’ I’d like to ask ye, if ye be of a mind to share.”

 

Ben took another swallow of his beer. “What’s that?” he asked curiously. 

 

“It’s obvious ye and Quinn be in love,” Mick began, and Ben nodded. “I wondered if ye’d given any thought to gettin’ married yerselves.”

 

Ben stared for a long moment, trying to read between the lines. It was a loaded question, especially coming from a Catholic priest. “Did he put you up to this?” he asked suspiciously.

 

Mick looked surprised. “Nae a bit of it, lad. Why’d ye ask?”

 

“No reason,” Ben said, glancing back over at the bar. Quinn looked up at the same moment and winked at him. Ben raised his glass and Quinn grinned and nodded, before turning back to his conversation. “Just seemed to come out of left field, somehow.”

 

“Did ye think no one would be wonderin’? Our prodigal son returns home for the first time in a couple of years, a bonny fella in tow, and dares anyone to say anythin’ aboot it?” Mick smiled. “Ye dinna know much about the Irish love of mindin’ everyone else’s business fer ’em.”

 

“I’m learning fast,” Ben conceded, with a rueful grin. “So, have you been appointed spokesman for Clan O’Donovan?”

 

“Nah,” Mick said easily. “Just askin’ for me own edification, as it were. He’s me best mate, and I want to see him happy, is all.”

 

“We *are* happy,” Ben affirmed. “But as far as marriage, well… let’s just say it’s not on the horizon right now.”

 

“It’s legal in the States now, yeah?” Mick pressed. 

 

“Yeah, it’s *legal*,” Ben said, with a sigh. “But that doesn’t mean it’s *right* for everybody. Any more than every marriage between a man and a woman is right, just because it’s legal.” He took another sip of his beer. “But, since you asked, Quinn proposed to me a couple of nights ago.”

 

“Did he?” Mick cried. “Why, that’s grand, Ben. Congratulations!” Then, watching Ben’s face, he sobered again. “Ye dinna accept.” It wasn’t a question.

 

“No, I dinna,” Ben said bluntly. 

 

“May one be after askin’ the reason why?” Mick asked carefully, and Ben sensed he would respect his wishes either way. After all, he was a priest. This wasn’t a confessional, and Ben wasn’t Catholic, but he felt the need to unburden his conscience to someone who would understand and not judge.

 

“Because… because it’s just not… right. There’s too many issues,” Ben said slowly, trying to untangle his own swirling emotions. He’d had a hard enough time trying to tell Quinn without hurting his feelings. And even then he hadn’t said it all.

 

“Be it yer family?” Mick asked, eyes kind. “I know the O’Donovans be on board with it-”

 

“No, it’s not that,” Ben said quickly, not wanting to get into the fact that his family didn’t know he was in a relationship with anyone, much less another man. “Well, not *just* that, anyway...”

 

“Mm hmm,” Mick said, taking a swallow of his beer. “It’s nae surprisin’, really. Ye probably know same-sex marriage isna legal in the North of Ireland. There’s a growin’ movement in that direction, but we’re nae there yet.”

 

“And the Church?” Ben asked, unable to resist. How many other occasions might he have to sound out a Catholic priest on the subject?

 

“Nay, the Church be nae recognizin’ it yet, either.” Mick studied Ben for another long moment. “Ye’re nae Catholic, yeah?”

 

“It’s more than that. Quinn’s been teaching at the Academy for over twenty-five years. He’s got a reputation for being a maverick, but… well, I’m pretty sure marrying another man wouldn’t sit well with the powers that be.”

 

“I dinna think they can hold it against him, can they?” Mick asked. “Aren’t there laws about that kind of thing?”

 

“Sure there are,” Ben agreed. “But that’s not the point.” He paused. “Did Quinn tell you about what happened in the spring, when the Board of Governors found out about us?”

 

“Only a wee bit of it,” Mick said. “He said ye quit because of it. It righteously pissed him off, but ye’re already knowin’ that, I’m sure.”

 

“I did it to *save* him, Mick!” Ben exclaimed. “He fought tooth and nail to keep *me* from getting canned, but he didn’t give a tinker’s damn about whether they could fire *him* over it!”

 

“Easy, lad. Ye’re among friends here,” Mick soothed. “And none of this’ll go beyond us, if ye dinna wish it.”

 

“I know,” Ben said moodily. “But thanks for reminding me, *Father*.” He took another swallow of his beer. 

 

“That’s nae all of it.” Mick said. “What else?” 

 

Ben sighed. This was the part he’d been grappling with for months, what had finally made him decide to resign from the Academy. “Quinn’s had a long and illustrious career. But if he and I got married, he’d automatically be labeled ‘That Gay Professor.’ Or worse. Not Professor Quinn Donovan, distinguished chairman of the Biology Department,” Ben said bitterly. “He doesn’t deserve that.”

 

“It’s a hard blow, lad,” Mick said sympathetically. “But ye’re both strong-minded. Ye’ll weather it through. And ye hae a lot of people on both sides of the ocean rootin’ for ye.”

 

“Thanks,” Ben said. “We need all the friends we can get.” 

 

They listened to the music and the conversations swirling around them for a while. Several men and women greeted Quinn with happy cries of welcome, and Ben enjoyed watching him, never minding that he was outside of the “inner circle.” It was hard enough remembering the various O’Donovan relatives, without trying to sort out the rest of the town, besides.

 

He turned to say as much to Mick, and was struck by the unguarded look on the priest’s face as he, too, watched his friend. There was a shadowy wistfulness in the brown eyes that touched something deep inside Ben. Mick and Quinn had grown up together, and Ben recalled that Mick had gone straight into seminary after finishing secondary school, while Quinn had taken a position in a research lab in Belfast, before his grandfather agreed to pay his tuition to the Academy. 

 

Ben touched Mick’s arm on the table. The two men’s eyes met, and in that moment, Ben knew. 

 

He *knew*. 

 

“You love him,” he said quietly.

 

Mick nodded. “I always hae, Ben, and I always will. But I love God more.” He patted Ben’s hand. “I’m happy for ye, truly. And I’ll be keepin’ ye both in me prayers.” He leaned forward. “And I’d best be gettin’ an invite to the weddin’.” 

 

Ben grinned. “Just an invite?”

 

“Well, unless I be turnin’ Prod, which I somehow dinna see happenin’, or the Church changes its mind on gay marriage, I’ll hae to be settlin’ for that, yeah?” Mick smiled. “But nothin’ would be givin’ me greater pleasure than to be marryin’ me best mate to *his* best mate.” 

 

“Amen to that, Father,” Ben said, clinking his glass to Mick’s.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Molly’s and Pete’s wedding day dawned, surprisingly clear and breezy. Looking out the bedroom window, Quinn remarked that Mick must have put in a good word with the Man Upstairs. After all, he told Ben, it rained *somewhere* in Ireland every day of the year, without fail. 

 

“Happy is the bride the sun shines on,” Ben agreed. 

 

He didn’t envy Quinn struggling with his wedding finery. A tux was hard enough to pull together. By comparison, Quinn’s outfit really should have come with an instruction manual.

 

The teal-and-navy County Antrim kilt lay flat in the front, with pleats in the back for ease of movement. In Ireland, Quinn had told him, clan colors were based on geography, rather than bloodlines. Thankfully, Pete had opted for the traditional “ancient” colors, over the gaudy “modern” version. The starched white tuxedo shirt and black bow tie were topped by a short, tight-fitting black jacket and vest, adorned with silver buttons. Cream-colored knee socks, black lace-up dress brogues and a black leather sporran suspended on a silver chain completed the outfit. The wool was soft as kitten’s fur under Ben’s fingers as he knelt to attach the sterling silver clan pin – Pete’s wedding gift to the men in the wedding party -- a few inches above Quinn’s right knee. He couldn’t resist running a teasing hand up the muscular inner thigh. 

 

“Dinna go startin’ somethin’ down there we haena the time to finish,” Quinn warned. 

 

“Just checking to see if you were going ‘native,’” Ben answered, with a grin. “When in Rome…”

 

Quinn chuckled. “We put it to a vote last night, and decided we’d behave ourselves, at least while we’re in church. Barristers should set a good example, after all. But afterward…” The heat in the blue eyes made the temperature in the room rise a few degrees. 

 

“Consider this a down payment, then,” Ben murmured, reaching up again. “A little something to look forward to.” 

 

Quinn groaned appreciatively, then turned to the mirror and adjusted his tie. “Will I do?” he asked over his shoulder.

 

“You look amazing,” Ben said sincerely. “Molly will be very impressed. I know I am.” He glanced around the room. “No plaid over the shoulder?”

 

Quinn shook his head. “That’s reserved for the clan chieftain. Today that’ll be Pete. The rest of us are just the supportin’ cast.” 

 

They stood side by side, admiring their reflections. Ben’s black Armani tuxedo had been a surprise birthday present, shortly before they’d left for Ireland. Ben had nearly passed out from shock when Quinn had driven him into Boston to be fitted. “Ye look grand, love,” Quinn said softly. He handed Ben a flat white box. “And here’s a bit of somethin’ from the clan, in honor of the occasion.”

 

It was a pleated wool cummerbund, in the same County Antrim plaid as Quinn’s kilt. Ben’s eyes widened. “Quinn,” he breathed, “It’s beautiful. But, are you sure-”

 

Quinn smiled. “It was Molly’s idea.” He secured it around Ben’s waist. “I’ll hae to be keepin’ a close eye on ye, else the lassies’ll be wheedlin’ ye away from me for sure.”

 

“No chance of that,” Ben said firmly. He stroked the plaid wool, loving the sentiment behind it. They were definitely proclaiming to the world that they were a couple. Then he reached up for a kiss, careful not to wrinkle either of them before the ceremony. “Mm, you smell good.” 

 

“Just soap and water. Molly specified no aftershave or cologne on any but Pete. She said there’s to be no ‘Stink Wars’ at her altar.” He chuckled. 

 

“Do they really use Irish Spring here, or is that just Fifth Avenue propaganda?” Ben quipped.

 

Quinn rolled his eyes. “Aye, they do, but mostly to repel rodents.” He slipped an arm about Ben’s waist. “We’d better get over to the big house, before they send out a search party.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Reina met them at the door in a robe, her hair in electric curlers. “Dinna ye look like a pair of toffs! C’mon in.” She ushered them into the living room, cautioning Quinn not to sit, so he wouldn’t wrinkle his kilt. 

 

“And how, pray tell, do ye expect me to get to the church without sittin’ down?” Quinn demanded. “I can hardly drive standin’ up.”

 

“Ye’re a professor. Think of something,” she said cheekily. “Now behave yerselves, while I finish gettin’ everybody else ready.”

 

“Where’s Molly?” Quinn called after her.

 

“Dressin’ at the church, o’ course!” she answered, exasperated. “Mum and Gwen are with her.” Really, was the man totally clueless?

 

Quinn grinned. “Anyone seen the groom this mornin’? Or did he bolt the country when our backs were turned?”

 

“Cathal’s babysittin’ him. Now lemme go, fool, I’m busy! Ben, chain him to the wall, will ye? And ye look grand in yer plaid.” 

 

~*~*~*~

 

The church was awash in flowers. Candles in each of the stained glass windows lent a soft glow to the vestibule. A chamber trio on harp, flute and violin played softly in the corner of the sacristy as the guests were being seated. 

 

Jenny had surprised Ben at the rehearsal the night before by asking him to walk her down the aisle. Aiden would escort Gwen, and Quinn would be standing in for Molly’s late father, to give the bride away. Molly and Pete had elected to have only honor attendants with them at the altar. 

 

Pete’s uncle solemnly escorted the groom’s elderly grandmother to her seat. Her frail looks were deceiving; Ben had watched her ordering her sons and grandsons about the night before, brandishing her cane when they didn’t step lively enough to suit her. 

 

Jenny followed on Ben’s arm, elegant in a tea-length silk gown of soft rose that accented her silver hair and clear blue eyes, so much like those of her son. Ben proudly led her to the front pew on the bride’s side of the church, then took his seat next to her. 

 

There was a pause, then Reina’s daughter Bridget and Molly’s younger sister Kathleen walked together down the aisle holding tapers, with which they carefully lit the candelabra on either side of the altar. They then took their seats, giggling softly.

 

Pete’s mother, in sapphire blue, was escorted by her husband. Like Quinn, he wore the traditional County Antrim navy-and-teal formal kilt. Seating her in the front row on the groom’s side, he met his son at the small side door and accompanied him to the altar as his best man. The plaid over Pete’s shoulder marked him, for that day, as the clan “chieftain.” 

 

There was a soft murmur of anticipation as Gwen and Aiden moved sedately down the aisle, and sat next to Jenny and Ben in the front row. The mother of the bride wore a lavender cocktail suit, topped with a playful fascinator in deep purple.

 

To the strains of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” Father Mick slowly processed from the rear of the church, followed by Reina’s son, Donal, and Pete’s youngest brother, Thomas. Their flowing white robes contrasted sharply with the groom’s and best man’s muted plaids. The three genuflected at the altar, then took their places, facing the congregation. 

 

Teenaged Helen, Molly’s sister and maid of honor, walked self-consciously down the aisle, carrying a long-stemmed bouquet of garden wildflowers, picked that same morning and still glistening with dew. The hoyden who’d whipped Ben’s butt in basketball more than once the past week had been replaced with a stylish young lady, in floral polished cotton and a circlet of flowers in her hair. Ben could practically hear the tongues hanging out. She’d not lack for dance partners at the reception that night. He’d be among them.

 

The chamber trio paused for dramatic effect, then sounded the opening chords of the Bridal Chorus. At Mick’s smiling gesture, the congregation rose to its feet and turned as one toward the rear double doors. 

 

Quinn and Molly stood in the entryway. The bride was radiant in an off-the-shoulder Dupioni silk wedding gown. She carried her great-grandmother’s ivory-and-lace fan, trimmed with pink roses and white heather. A full-length lace mantilla lay gracefully on her upswept red curls, and Jenny’s diamond earrings and matching pendant flashed in the light of the candles. Ben saw more than one hand wipe away a happy tear, as Quinn proudly led her to her groom. Jenny slipped her hand in Ben’s and they smiled at each other.

 

At the appropriate moment, Quinn solemnly affirmed, in both English and Irish, that Molly’s family gave her to Pete in marriage. He kissed her tenderly on both cheeks, then laid her hand in Pete’s. Winking at Ben, he took his seat next to Gwen on the aisle.

 

There were prayers, readings and music, including a tender solo by the groom’s only sister. The bride and groom exchanged vows and rings, promising to love each other all the days of their lives, then Mick solemnly pronounced them husband and wife. A chaste kiss, and the guests applauded as they happily walked arm in arm back down the aisle.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Molly embraced Ben in the foyer. “I’m so glad ye’re here, Ben,” she whispered. “Take good care of me uncle. He loves ye.” She touched the plaid cummerbund at his waist. “Ye be one of us now.”

 

Ben smiled. “And I have you to thank for it,” he said softly. “You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.”

 

He returned to the front pew to watch the wedding photos. The men were dashing in their plaid kilts, the women festive in colorful dresses and hats. Ben made a note to ask for a copy of the picture of Jenny with her three adult children. Quinn flanked his mother, and Gwen and Reina stood to either side, forming a tight-knit, loving circle. 

 

Then he heard a voice call his name, echoed by a chorus of “Get yer bloomin’ arse up here, lad!” He was all but dragged into the family grouping, next to Quinn, who slipped a steadying arm around his waist. 

 

“You’re family, Ben,” Jenny said, with a warm smile, then requested a picture of him and Quinn together. Ben was oddly reminded of his high school prom, and had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing out loud: Quinn in a “skirt” and him in a tux and matching cummerbund! At least neither of them was wearing a corsage!

 

Photos done, Quinn and Pete’s father herded the crew to the waiting cars to take them to the traditional wedding breakfast at the Jamesons’ home. Unlike in the States, Quinn had explained, this initial private celebration was for the wedding party and the couple’s families. There would be a break in the afternoon for any wishing to rest up a bit, followed by a lively calleigh that evening. Quinn predicted it would likely go on until dawn.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The reception hall was filled to capacity. Molly and Pete glowed with newly wedded happiness. Small wonder Quinn had caught the “wedding bug.” But Ben knew he’d been right to decline, at least for the time being. With their recent “outing” at the Academy still a raw wound, he wasn’t rushing into anything. 

 

A multi-tiered wedding cake stood to one side, boasting a handmade topper that had been in Pete’s family for generations. Quinn had brought the heirloom claymore at Gwen’s request. A pair of delicate Waterford champagne flutes trimmed in white ribbons sat next to a sterling silver ice bucket.

 

Ben and Quinn clapped with the rest of the room as the couple’s official first dance ended. Then Molly danced with Pete’s father, and Pete with Gwen, after which the floor was declared open, but everyone seemed to be holding back, waiting on… what?

 

With a brief touch to Ben’s shoulder, Quinn moved to his mother’s side. “May I have the honor, milady?” he asked.

 

Jenny’s eyes were bright. “It would be my very great pleasure, milord.” The band struck up a slow, elegant waltz. Ben remembered the dance he and Quinn had shared on Valentine’s Day weekend, and enjoyed the happy smiles in the crowd. When the song ended, mother and son embraced, Jenny’s heart in her eyes. Ben made a snap decision, moving before he lost his nerve. Somehow, he knew it was the right thing to do at that moment.

 

“May I cut in?” he asked politely. 

 

“I would be delighted,” Jenny said, with a small graceful curtsey, then moved into his arms. The music began again, and Ben led her around the floor, only half-conscious of the attention they were garnering. Quinn and his sisters smiled and raised their glasses in benediction as they passed by.

 

“You’re a very good dancer, Ben,” Jenny remarked, as he twirled her under his arm.

 

“According to your son, every man should know how to waltz,” Ben replied, with a grin. “I guess those ballroom lessons are paying off.”

 

“Most definitely,” she agreed, as the music came to an end. “Thank you for the dance. It was lovely,” she added, as he escorted her back to her children. 

 

“My pleasure, Lady Genevieve,” he answered, kissing her hand. She blushed like a schoolgirl, even as her fingers reflexively curled around his at the sound of her proper title. 

 

Quinn slid an arm around his waist. “Havin’ a good time, love?” he asked, handing his mother a glass of champagne.

 

“Yeah, it’s a great party,” Ben answered, grinning up at him. “You?”

 

“Oh, aye. It’s been too long since I’ve seen me whole clan, and what a grand occasion for it, yeah?”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Jenny watched thoughtfully as the two men excused themselves and strolled away. 

 

“They look well together, dinna ye think, Gran?” Molly asked. “And Uncail is so happy.”

 

“Yes, sweetheart,” her grandmother agreed, with a smile. “They do, and he is.”

 

Molly linked her arm through Jenny’s. “We had a telegram from Cousin Turlough, wishin’ us well, and apologizin’ again that he couldna make it back from Tokyo in time for the weddin’. He willna be home for another couple of weeks.”

 

“Just as well,” Jenny said absently, watching her son and Ben interacting with the other guests. 

 

Molly followed her glance, and a knowing smile played over her lips. “Aye, ye’re right aboot that.” She leaned in. “And as soon as I knew for sure that Uncail was comin’ – and bringin’ Ben – well, somehow Turlough’s invitation was a wee bit… late gettin’ mailed out. It wasna very nice, I know, but-”

 

Jenny smiled at her beautiful granddaughter. “Yes, darling, I know. We’ll keep it our little secret.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

When the band took a break, Ben was dragged to the piano and urged to “give it a go, there’s a good lad.” He played a couple of traditional romantic numbers (they *were* celebrating a wedding, after all), then segued into a medley of Irish songs that brought the crowd to its feet.

 

When he swung into a rollicking rendition of “I’ll Tell Me Ma,” Molly impulsively pulled her uncle onto the dance floor. They were well-matched, dizzily stepping and twirling, while the whole room cheered them on. No stately ballroom waltz, this was a foot-stomping, hand-clapping, unabashed celebration of life and love. 

 

As they whirled past, Ben deliberately sped up the tempo. Challenge accepted, they matched him step for step, to the noisy approval of friends and family. So he did it again. And again, until his fingers and their feet flew almost too fast to see. Then, as Quinn raised his laughing niece over his head, Ben abruptly halted the music. Quinn threw him a quizzical glance, Molly’s head nearly touching the low ceiling. Ben responded with a cheeky grin, then delicately tinkled the ivories in the very last measures. The room roared in appreciation and crowded around the couple as the bride threw her arms around her breathless uncle’s neck and bussed him on the cheek. 

 

Quinn collapsed onto the piano bench and wiped his brow with his handkerchief, pulling Ben close with the other. Cathal handed him a glass of whiskey and he downed half of it in one swallow, followed by a loud, unapologetic belch. Ben made a token show of avoiding Quinn’s attempt to kiss him, then “reluctantly” submitted, glorying in Quinn’s open possessiveness and the room’s obvious approval. It was just as Jenny had said: they loved their native son, and welcomed Ben simply because Quinn loved him. It brought tears to his eyes.

 

“What’s wrong, laddie?” murmured Quinn in his ear.

 

Ben blinked and grinned reassuringly. “Nothing, except the fumes of that whiskey on your breath, ‘laddie,’ he quipped. “Makes my eyes water.” 

 

Quinn’s roar of laughter was echoed by the room in general. “So ye dinna be likin’ me with whiskey on me breath, yeah? Well, best be gettin’ used to it, lad, because I hae no intentions of givin’ it up! Better still, learn to drink it with me. Then you’ll hae nothin’ more to complain aboot!” 

 

As if to prove his point, several glasses were thrust in their direction. Oh, shit, thought Ben, as he gingerly accepted one of the smaller ones. Walked right into that one, didn’t I? 

 

Acutely aware of the eyes on them, he took a deep breath, clinked his glass to Quinn’s and took a swallow, feeling it burn all the way down. Predictably, he started to cough, and Quinn clapped him on the back, offering his handkerchief to wipe away the tears streaming down his face. Ben gave a valiant grin and raised his glass to the crowd, who cheered his bravado. Then he leaned into Quinn’s shoulder and closed his eyes, waiting for the room to stop spinning. God, but he *hated* the taste of Irish whiskey! 

 

“All right, love?” Quinn asked, low enough that no one else would hear. “You don’t have to drink it. You did exactly right just now, but if you don’t want any more, just set it down. It won’t go to waste, I promise.” The abrupt absence of the brogue was proof of Quinn’s concern and desire to appease.

 

“I’m okay,” Ben assured him shakily, wiping his eyes again. “It’s just really strong, and you know I’m not used to hard liquor.” The warm arm around his shoulders steadied him, and after a moment he sat up and turned back to the keyboard. “So, who’s up for more dancing?”

 

Reina leaned over the piano. “I’m thinkin’ it be high time we see some more of *yer* skills, Mr. Benjamin Kensington,” she said gleefully. “What do ye say, me bold cock?” she asked her brother, who grinned and nodded. “Take yer man out on the floor and show us how the Yanks do it in the States.”

 

“Wha-” Ben began, as Quinn pulled him to his feet. “Wait a minute! Quinn-” 

 

Quinn motioned to his sister, who began an easy tempo. Glancing up into Quinn’s flushed and smiling face, Ben told himself to relax. Quinn could make the clumsiest yokel look like a swan, and not for anything would he have embarrassed him or his family on this special night. They were a couple, and accepted as such, and he’d enjoy every minute of it while it lasted.

 

~*~*~*~

 

It was nearly dawn when they finally stumbled into the cottage. Ben yawned as he grappled with his bow tie, then gave up and turned to Quinn, who undid it for him. He then removed his own jacket and unhooked the chain holding the sporran, laying them across the arm of one of the chairs. Ben hungrily drank in the way the kilt hugged the lean hips. 

 

Real men *definitely* wore kilts.

 

Quinn gave him a knowing smile. “See somethin’ ye like?” he murmured.

 

Ben grinned. “Oh, yeah,” he said, stepping in close and wrapping his arms around his lover. “Every minute of every day.”

 

“Mm, I’m likin’ the sound of that,” Quinn said, pulling him tightly against himself. Ben could feel his arousal, even through the layers between them. “Shall we be headin’ for bed, me bonny love?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Ben said again, rubbing against him, relishing the throaty groan in his ear.

 

Arms around each other, they moved to the bedroom. Then Ben stepped a couple of paces away, motioning Quinn to stay where he was. With a sexy smile, he began to undress, starting with the plaid cummerbund. Ever so slowly, he unbuttoned his tuxedo shirt, running his palms down his chest, loving the way Quinn’s breath quickened and his eyes darkened. The familiar sense of power washed over him, heightening his own arousal. 

 

Quinn rumbled low in his throat. He reached for him, but Ben playfully stepped away again. “Patience, me bold laddie,” he reproved, wagging an admonitory finger. “The best things in life are worth waiting for.”

 

“Patience, hell,” Quinn growled. “Get on with it, or I’m takin’ over.” The gleam in the deep-set blue eyes made it clear that he meant every word.

 

Ben let the thrill of the moment overtake him. “I’d like to see you try,” he taunted, with a cheeky grin that dared Quinn to make good on his threat. 

 

The words were barely out of his mouth before Quinn lunged, lifting him up and throwing him, half-clothed and laughing, onto the bed. Then, to Ben’s disbelief, the nervy bastard left the room, returning with his jacket and sporran, which he proceeded to carefully hang in the closet. When Ben indignantly protested, Quinn merely grinned. “What’s the matter, lad? Did ye nae just say that the best things in life be worth waitin’ for?” Apparently turnabout was fair play. 

 

He pulled the bow tie from his neck and tossed it onto the dresser. Then he reached for the buttons on his vest, his blue eyes never leaving Ben’s face. Ben was sharply reminded of their first night together, himself naked under an oversized silk dressing gown, watching avidly as Quinn did battle with an intransigent rented plaid before ripping it off and bringing Ben to a mind-blowing orgasm moments later. Ben had happily repaid in kind before they had gone upstairs, where he’d fallen asleep in Quinn’s arms.

 

Ben sat up and pulled off his shirt. “Get your Irish arse over here. *Now*.”

 

Quinn laughed. “Wouldna ye rather I got out of this get-up first?” 

 

“Mm, yeah, maybe. Is it a rental?”

 

Quinn shook his head. “I bought it. Thought it’d be nice to hae a bit of home… at home.” 

 

Ben heard the wistful tone. “Then definitely take it off.” Aroused as he was already, he forced himself to lie back against the pillows and enjoy the show. “Nice and slow.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Truth be told, Quinn felt a little foolish, standing in the middle of what had been his parents’ bedroom, doing a *striptease* for his 17-years-younger lover, lying in the bed where he himself had probably been conceived. He shoved the cold-shower thoughts out of his head, focusing instead on the lust in Ben’s green eyes. 

 

As he reached for the buckles on the kilt, Ben rose from the bed, slipped out of his tuxedo slacks and briefs, and knelt, naked, before him. Probably not an easy thing to do, Quinn thought, given his obvious state of arousal.

 

“I’ve been dreaming about this all day long,” Ben slurred. His hand slid up Quinn’s inner thigh, then inside his shorts. “And here I was thinking you were going to go commando tonight.”

 

Quinn shook his head. “Somehow I couldna see meself dancin’ with me mother without wearin’ a bit of underwear. And with that crowd, I’d hae nae put it past someone to go checkin’.” He stroked Ben’s hair. “But do make yourself at home. Ye know where everythin’ is.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

As soon as Quinn had started undressing, Ben knew he wouldn’t be able to just watch. He’d been fantasizing all day about that damned kilt, and what lay beneath it. He rose from the bed, stripped and knelt, loving the anticipation he saw in the blue eyes above him. The wry comment of “ye know where everythin’ is” nearly broke his concentration, but he quickly refocused on the task now quite literally at hand.

 

He hummed deep in his throat as he drew the cotton boxers down. Then he began to stroke the long lean thighs, deliberately bypassing the rapidly hardening cock. He never tired of pleasuring his man this way. He could feel the muscles in Quinn’s legs jerking spasmodically as his fingers inched toward their prize. “Need to sit down?” he asked sympathetically, leaning back for a moment. 

 

Quinn nodded shakily. “I’d better,” he admitted. “Or we’re both likely to be goin’ sprawlin’ on the floor.” He lowered himself to the foot of the bed, spreading his legs wide under the kilt. He took a few deep steadying breaths, then nodded for Ben to continue. 

 

Quinn’s erection was rock-hard as Ben reached for it. The balls were soft as silk, and he fondled them a long moment, to Quinn’s throaty rumble of approval. His mountain lion loved to be petted.

 

Raising the kilt, he ducked his head underneath, and abruptly found himself in near-total darkness. He might have to grope a bit, but after all, he had the map memorized. Nuzzling the rigid shaft, he blew softly on the curls at its base, enjoying the tickle around his nose and chin. Quinn gasped at the cool air on his heated skin. 

 

Pulling back out again, Ben sat back on his knees. “Hot under there,” he commented, fanning himself with one hand. 

 

“It *is* wool, after all,” Quinn pointed out. “Time to be takin’ it off, I’m thinkin’.”

 

“Mm, you might be right. Don’t want to see it get damaged,” Ben replied, then reached to undo the buckles. He carefully eased the plaid out from under Quinn’s hips, then hung it and the shirt in the closet, along with his tuxedo. Armani did *not* belong on a bedroom floor.

 

Quinn slid up to the head of the bed. Ben smiled and joined him, positioning himself again between the outspread thighs. “Much better,” he said with a smile, surveying the feast laid out before him on the bed. The mighty erection drew him like a magnet, pulsing strongly as it lay against Quinn’s flat stomach. The balls were already drawing up, a sure sign he wasn’t going to last long. The thought made Ben’s own cock throb in anticipation.

 

He reached again for the hard organ, drawing it between his lips, careful to avoid scratching it with his teeth. He suckled strongly, anchoring the cock with one hand, and massaging the balls with the other. Quinn was moaning loudly, and his fingers clutched handfuls of the sheets as he fought to remain still. Ben slowed his movements, but Quinn thrust up and buried himself in Ben’s hot mouth. At the familiar signal, Ben let his teeth scrape against the underside and Quinn convulsed, hot liquid spurting down Ben’s throat. It was enough to throw him over the edge as well, and they rode the waves of their shared passion. 

 

Once both men could breathe again, Quinn pulled Ben up and into his arms. Ben lay against his shoulder, one hand lazily caressing his lover’s chest and stomach. Both men *should* have been exhausted after the all-day festivities and the celebration of a few moments before. The gentle hand on his hair was soothing, but Ben wasn’t quite ready to go to sleep. With a kiss to Quinn’s right nipple, he began a leisurely track down his chest and ribs, savoring the soft gasps from the head of the bed. Quinn lay back against the pillows, eyes closed, outwardly amenable.

 

As he approached the groin area, Ben slowed his movements even further, drawing out the delicious anticipation. Ever so carefully, he began a minute inspection, starting at the pelvic bones, then on to the soft skin at the base of the now mostly quiescent penis. Quinn jerked slightly, being a bit ticklish there, and Ben rubbed his chin stubble against it, followed by a kiss. The blissful sigh made him smile.

 

Reaching under the bed, he retrieved the penlight he’d secreted there, and shone it on Quinn’s scrotum. The reddish-brown pubic hairs glowed, as if on fire. Holding the light in his teeth, he studied Quinn’s testicles.

 

“What on earth be ye doin’ down there, lad?” Quinn asked huskily.

 

Ben dropped the penlight on the sheet, then raised his head and grinned. “Just checking,” he said lightly.

 

“Checkin’ for what? And what the hell is that next to me leg? Damn, that’s *hot*!” Quinn sat up, eyes widening in disbelief at the sight of the penlight. 

 

“For damages,” Ben said innocently, trying not to giggle at the look on Quinn’s face.

 

“*Damages*? What the-” Understanding dawned. “Oh, glory be to God. They told ye about the-”

 

“The trike accident, yeah. *And* the volleyball game, when you were a teenager.” Quinn swore heatedly in Irish, which only made Ben laugh harder. “Relax, they were just having some fun at your expense. But I figured I’d see if they were telling the truth.”

 

Quinn grimaced. “I was but three years old, Ben. I seriously doubt ye’re goin’ to find anything. And as for the other, well, wasna that just ‘soft tissue’? Not likely to leave any permanent marks. Though I remember *verra* clearly what it felt like, to this day.”

 

“I’ll bet,” Ben commiserated, moving back up to lie against his shoulder again. “But I told them I didn’t think there was any permanent harm done.”

 

“Ye told me sisters-” Quinn groaned, and hid his eyes with his free hand. “I ought to paddle the lot of ye,” he growled, tugging at Ben’s hair. “Is *nothin’* sacred? God Almighty…” Then his shoulders began to shake, and soon both men were laughing helplessly.

 

After several minutes, Quinn seemed to make a conscious effort to compose himself. “Well, what are ye waitin’ for? Ye wanted an inspection, ye said. Get *on* with it!”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Jenny clung to her son’s broad shoulders, fighting back the tears. He held her close, stroking her soft hair, and inhaling her delicate fragrance. “Don’t cry, Mum,” he murmured in her ear. “Please don’t cry.”

 

“Promise you’ll come back soon, darling,” she whispered. “Both of you. You’re so far away. Come again, soon.”

 

Quinn nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “This will always be home, Mum,” he said. He reached out and drew Ben to them. “We *will* be back. Promise.” He kissed her on the cheek, and tasted her tears. Another minute, and they’d be mingling with his own

 

Ben nodded, and Jenny pulled him into a three-way hug. “This is your home, too, Ben,” she whispered. “Come back to us.”

 

Quinn turned to his sisters. “You all have an open invitation to come to the States,” he reminded them. “The planes fly both ways, you know.” 

 

Reina grinned. “We just might hae to take ye up on that, brother mine. Give us a reason to cross the pond, yeah?” She winked at Ben. “Like maybe another weddin’?”

 

Ben flushed. Had Quinn told them he was going to propose? And did they know he’d said no? Or was it just a shot in the dark? He glanced over at Quinn, whose face was carefully blank. No, he hadn’t told them. Thank God.

 

“Ready to go, love?” Quinn said, heading to the car. 

 

Ben nodded, then turned back to the three O’Donovan women. “Thank you again, for everything. It’s been fantastic.”

 

“Remember what we said, yeah? Knock him out, throw him on a plane and haul your arses back over here,” Gwen said cheekily. She stepped forward and hugged Ben’s neck. “Keep him safe for us. He’s not smart enough to do it hisself.”

 

“I will,” Ben promised. He and Quinn climbed into their rental car and slowly pulled away.

 

~*~*~*~

 

They checked into a hotel room in downtown Dublin, and headed out to see the sights. Tickets on a Hop-On-Hop-Off double-decker bus allowed them to enjoy the view and the breeze from the upper level as it made the rounds. 

 

Their first stop was the General Post Office. Ben had grown up hearing his father talk about the 1916 Rising. He was amazed to find that the first floor was still a working post office, complete with 100-year-old bullet holes in the exterior. The basement had been converted into a museum, paying tribute to the handful of martyrs executed for their ill-fated attempt to declare Ireland’s independence from the British Empire. In the third-floor gift shop, Ben gathered a plethora of books and other materials to bring back to his dad. 

 

Next was Kilmainham Gaol, where those same freedom fighters had been briefly imprisoned after being forced to surrender to the British authorities, and were summarily executed by firing squad. A simple cross stood in the open courtyard where the seven heroes had breathed their last. 

 

Thinking to alleviate the tension and sadness of the earlier stops, Quinn next took him to the famous outdoor statue of fishmonger Molly Malone, where they laughed at the tourists openly fondling her admittedly impressive torso. They strolled through the magnificent gardens of St Stephen’s Green, and stood in line for over an hour to ooh and aah over the hand-painted pages of the Book of Kells at Trinity College. They had dinner in one of the local pubs, sang along with a trio of local musicians, and finally fell into bed well after midnight.

 

The next morning, they slept late, then ventured downtown to do a bit of shopping. Ben admired the heavy hand-knit Aran sweaters, and Quinn explained that the various patterns were developed over the years to assist in identifying the families of drowned fishermen for notification purposes. They bought matching pullovers in the O’Donovan pattern, and Ben added mufflers for his dad and Owen. For his mother and sister-in-law, he bought long silk scarves with colorful Celtic designs. Quinn added one for Adele, and a muffler for Mark Winters. They had purchased scale models of the Titanic for Ani and Ben’s nephew from the vast museum in Belfast and had them shipped it home a few days earlier.

 

They took the Dart to the picturesque fishing village of Howth, on the eastern coast. Ben thrilled to the tales of the haunted lighthouse at the end of the pier, and admired the yachts and fishing boats in the harbor. Following an excellent seafood dinner at one of the restaurants on the pier, they returned to their hotel and packed their bags for the flight home early the next morning.

 

~*~*~*~

Ben took a deep breath as they exited the taxi at the airport. “I’ll remember this trip for the rest of my life,” he said to Quinn.

 

“Good,” Quinn agreed, hauling the bags out of the trunk. “That’s as it should be. But somehow I dinna think it’ll be yer last.”

 

Ben grinned. “I’m under strict orders from your family to throw you on a plane once in a while.”

 

“Are ye, now?” Quinn teased. “Sure, and isn’t family a grand thing?” He picked up his suitcase. “Speaking of which, isna it about time I be meetin’ yours?”

 

Ben grinned. “I’ve about run out of excuses, haven’t I? Let’s get back home and I’ll see what I can set up.”

 

“I’ll be holdin’ ye to that,” Quinn said, with a smile, as they made their way into the bustling airport.

 

~end~


End file.
